Grafton, Sue-X

ALSO BY SUE GRAFTON

Kinsey Millhone Mysteries

A is for Alibi
B is for Burglar
C is for Corpse
D is for Deadbeat
E is for Evidence
F is for Fugitive
G is for Gumshoe
H is for Homicide
I is for Innocent
J is for Judgment
K is for Killer
L is for Lawless
M is for Malice
N is for Noose
O is for Outlaw

P is for Peril
Q is for Quarry
R is for Ricochet
S is for Silence
T is for Trespass
U is for Undertow
V is for Vengeance
W is for Wasted

and

Kinsey and Me: Stories



A M ARIAN WOOD BOOK
Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2015 by Sue Grafton
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grafton, Sue.
X / Sue Grafton.
p. cm. — (Kinsey M illhone mystery ; 24)
ISBN 978-1-101-61434-1
1. M illhone, Kinsey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—California—Fiction. 3. Serial murder investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.R13X12 2015 2015025108
813'.54—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

This book is dedicated to my children:
Leslie, Jay, Jamie & Robert.

Caring, hardworking, responsible; my pride and joy always.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following: Steven Humphrey;
Judge Brian Hill, Santa Barbara County Superior Court; Melissa Carranza, Assistant Office Manager,
Executive Limousine; Santa Barbara FBI Special Agent Linda Esparza Dozer; Ventura FBI Special
Agent Ingerd Sotelo; Will Blankley, U.S. Probation Department Supervisor; Dave Mazzetta, CPA,
Ridgeway and Warner, Certified Public Accountants; Sarah Jayne Mack, Our Lady of Mount Carmel
Church; Louise Chadwick, Office Administrator, Montecito Water District; John Pope; Joel Ladin;
Jamie and Robert Clark; Susan and Gary Gulbransen; Sean Morelos; Sally Giloth; and Robert
Failing, M.D., forensic pathologist (retired).

CONTENTS

Also by Sue Grafton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments

IN THE BEGINNING . . .
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34

Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
AND IN THE END . . .

IN THE BEGINNING . . .

Teddy Xanakis would have to steal the painting. What other choice did she have? She believed it was
a Turner—a possibility she couldn’t confirm unless she shipped it to the Tate in London, where the
Turner scholars, Evelyn Joll and Martin Butlin in particular, could make a judgment about its
authenticity. Unfortunately, the painting was currently in the basement of the house that was now
solely in Ari’s name, where it had sat for years, unrecognized and unappreciated. She might have
blamed herself for the oversight, but why on earth would anyone expect to find a priceless painting in
such homely company?

She and Ari had bought the house when they moved from Chicago to Santa Teresa, California. The
estate had been owned by the Carpenters, who passed it down from generation to generation until the
last surviving family member died in 1981, having neglected to write a will. The estate attorney had
locked the doors and put the house up for sale. Teddy and Ari had bought it fully equipped and fully
furnished, right down to the rolls of toilet paper in the linen closet and three sets of sterling flatware
in the silver vault. The antiques, including several exquisite Persian carpets, were appraised as part
of the purchase price, but in the process a small group of paintings had been overlooked. The attorney
had paid the taxes owed, handing the IRS and the State of California the hefty sums to which they
were entitled.

Teddy and Ari had made use of a number of the antiques in furnishing the mansion’s first and
second floors. The rest they’d moved into the complex of storage rooms below. The paintings were in
a cabinet in an upright rack, each leaning against its neighbor. Teddy had come across them shortly
after they moved in. Over the years she’d developed an eye for fine art, but these paintings were drab
and uninteresting. The subject matter was classical: nymphs, mythological figures, Roman ruins, a
seascape, heavy-legged peasant women bringing in the harvest, a still life with a dead duck and
rotting fruit, and a floral arrangement in colors she didn’t care for.

It was after she and Ari divorced and they’d both signed off on the settlement that she’d realized
one of the paintings she’d so carelessly dismissed might be an original by Joseph Mallord William
Turner, whose work sold at auction in the millions.

Her rationalization for the contemplated theft was as follows:

1. Ari had no appreciation of art. The collection she’d put together comprised the works of a
group known as Les Petits-Maîtres—minor Impressionists like Bartoli, Canet, Jacques
Lambert, and Pierre Louis Cazaubon, whose paintings were still affordable because the
artists themselves had never achieved the legendary stature of Cézanne, Renoir, Monet,
Van Gogh, and their ilk. The collection had already been awarded to her in the settlement,
so why not this one small additional painting?

2. If Ari realized the true value of the painting, they’d only get into another wrangle as to
which of them was entitled to it. If they couldn’t agree, which seemed inevitable, a judge
could force a sale and divide the money equally between them. In this one tiny instance,
money didn’t interest her. The Turner was a treasure she’d never see again in her lifetime
and she was determined to have it.

3. Ari had already screwed her over once, quite literally, by having a dalliance with Stella
Morgan, the woman Teddy had once considered her best friend.

Stella’s husband, Douglas, was the architect who’d designed the remodel of a condominium Ari
and Teddy owned in downtown Santa Teresa. It was while he was overseeing construction that he
was stricken with a fatal heart attack. Months passed. After the remodeling work was finished, Ari
and Teddy continued to see Stella, who had adjusted to her widowhood as best she could with all that
money as compensation.

Then came disaster. That September Teddy spent a weekend in Los Angeles, attending a seminar at
the Getty on the Plein Air Painters. On Monday when she arrived home, she hadn’t been in the house
an hour before an acquaintance rang her up and gave her a blow-by-blow. Teddy’s options were
limited: fight, flight, play dead, or screw him. She’d slapped Ari with divorce papers within the
week.

He got the house, which she couldn’t afford to maintain in any event. She got the flat in London. He
got a sizable chunk of jewelry, including the necklace he’d given her for their tenth anniversary. She
freely confessed she was bitter about that. The stocks and bonds had been sorted out between them.
The division was fair and square, which pissed her off no end. There was nothing fair and square
about a cheating husband who’d boffed her best friend. In a further cruel twist of fate, in the division
of their assets, Teddy had been awarded the very condominium where the architect had breathed his
last.

More real estate was the last thing she needed. Her broker priced the condo at a million plus and
assured her of a quick sale. After the apartment sat for eighteen months without a nibble, Teddy
decided the place would be more attractive if it were properly furnished and decorated. She’d hired a
Santa Teresa stager named Annabelle Wright and instructed her to cherry-pick the items in Ari’s
basement for that purpose. He agreed because the hostilities had gone on long enough and he wanted
her out of his hair.

Once the condo was suitably tarted up, Teddy had hired a photographer to do a shoot, and the
resulting four-color brochure was circulated among real estate agents in Beverly Hills. A well-known
actor had snapped it up—all cash, no contingencies, and a ten-day escrow. The deal was done and all
that remained was for the two of them to sign off so Teddy could collect her check.

In the meantime, and this was Teddy’s final rationalization:

4. Ari and Stella had gotten married.

Teddy had moved to Bel Air by then, living in the guesthouse of a friend who’d taken pity on her
and invited her to stay for an unspecified period of time. It was during the ten-day escrow, while
papers were being drawn up, that someone spotted the painting that appeared in the brochure, a
seascape shown hanging above the fireplace in the living room. This was a dealer who owned a
gallery on Melrose and had an unerring eye for the finer things in life. He’d glanced at the photograph
and then brought it closer to his face. A nanosecond later, he picked up the phone and called Teddy,
who’d long been a customer of his.

“This looks like a Turner, darling. Could it possibly be genuine?”
“Oh, I doubt it. That’s been sitting in the basement for years.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d send color photographs to the Tate to see if someone can establish the

provenance. Better yet, take the painting yourself and see what they have to say. What harm could it
do?”

Heeding his advice, she decided to retrieve the painting and have it examined by the experts. She
returned to Santa Teresa, where she signed the final papers on the sale and then drove from the
broker’s office to the condominium. She’d been told the new owner would be taking possession the
following weekend as soon as the place had been emptied, so when she let herself in, she was
astonished to see the apartment had already been stripped to the bare walls. No furniture, no art, no
Persian carpets, and no accessories. She’d called Ari, who was gleeful. He said he’d known she’d
dash in and confiscate any items she took a fancy to, so he’d made a preemptive strike and emptied
the place. If she wanted to dispute the move, she could have her attorney contact his.

As she no longer had access to the painting, she approached the photographer and asked to see his
proofs. There were several clear shots of the painting, which was really quite lovely now that she had
the chance to examine it more closely. It was a seascape with a flat beach and a sky streaked with
clouds. In the background, cliffs were visible; probably the Margate Cliffs, a Turner favorite. In the
foreground, a boat appeared to have foundered. The boat itself, she learned later, was known as a
xebec, a small three-masted ship having an overhanging bow and stern and both square and lateen
sails. The tonal quality was delicate, gradations of browns and grays with touches of color here and
there. She asked for and was given four prints.

At that point, she realized she’d better buckle down to work. She moved back to town and
embarked on a comprehensive self-education. She studied the J.M.W. Turner catalogue raisonné and
any other biographical information she could get her hands on. Turner had died in 1851. The bulk of
his artistic output he’d left as a bequest to the National Gallery in London. Three hundred and
eighteen paintings went to the Tate and National Gallery, and thirty-five oil sketches to the British
Museum. The remaining two hundred plus paintings were in private collections in Great Britain and
America.

Nine paintings were unaccounted for. The appearance of one such painting, whose whereabouts
and size were unknown, had been mentioned in the November 1833 Magazine of Fine Arts.
Described as “a beautiful little picture,” it was hung in the Society of British Artists exhibition that
same year. Its owner was one J. Carpenter, about whom nothing else was known except that he had
loaned a Hogarth and a Morland to this same exhibition. Teddy’s eyes filled with tears and she’d had
to honk discreetly into a tissue.

She drove to the Santa Teresa County Architectural Archives and then to the Santa Teresa
Dispatch to research the family who’d had the painting in its possession for so many years. Jeremy
Carpenter IV had emigrated from England to America in 1899, bringing with him a sizable family and
a ship’s hold filled with household goods. The home he built in Montebello, which had taken five
years to complete, was finished in 1904.

Teddy made three trips to the house, thinking she could walk in casually and remove the painting
without attracting notice. Unfortunately, Ari had instructed the staff to usher her politely to the door,
which is what they did. Of one thing she was certain—she could not let Ari know of her interest in the
seascape or her suspicions about its pedigree.

She thought she had plenty of time to devise a plan, but then she learned the newlyweds had leased
the house for a year to a couple from New York. Ari and Stella were taking a delayed honeymoon,
after which they’d move into the contemporary home that Stella owned. Ari was apparently taking the
opportunity to clear out the basement. His intention was to donate the bulk of the items to a local
charity for the annual fund-raiser coming up in a month.

She’d have to act and she’d have to do it soon. The task she faced was not entirely unfamiliar.
She’d stolen a painting once before, but nothing even close to one of this magnitude.

1

Santa Teresa, California, Monday, March 6, 1989. The state at large and the town of Santa Teresa in
particular were nearing the midpoint of a drought that had slithered into view in 1986 and wouldn’t
slither off again until March of 1991, when the “miracle rains” arrived. Not that we dared anticipate
relief at the time. From our perspective, the pitiless conditions were upon us with no end in sight.
Local reservoirs had shrunk, leaving a wide swath of dried mud as cracked as an alligator’s hide.

My professional life was in the same state—always worrisome when you are your sole financial
support. Self-employment is a mixed bag. The upside is freedom. Go to work when you like, come
home when you like, and wear anything you please. While you still have bills to pay, you can accept a
new job or decline. It’s all up to you. The downside is uncertainty, the feast-or-famine mentality not
everyone can tolerate.

My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective by trade, doing business as Millhone
Investigations. I’m female, thirty-eight years old, twice divorced, and childless, a status I maintain
with rigorous attention to my birth control pills. Despite the shortage of new clients, I had a shitload
of money in the bank, so I could afford to sit tight. My savings account had been plumped by an
unexpected sum that dropped into my lap some six months before. I’d invested the major chunk of it in
mutual funds. The remaining cash I kept in a money market account that I designated “untouchable.”
Friends, on hearing about my windfall, viewed me as certifiable. “Forget about work. Why not travel
and enjoy life?”

I didn’t give the question credence. At my age, retirement is out of the question, and even
temporary idleness would have driven me insane. True, I could have covered my expenses for months
to come with enough in reserve for a lavish trip abroad, except for the following impediments:

1. I’m miserly and cheap.
2. I don’t have a passport because I’ve never needed one. I had traveled to Mexico some

years before, but all that was required in crossing the border then was proof of U.S.
citizenship.

That aside, anyone who knows me will testify to how ill-suited I am to a life of leisure. When it
comes to work, it isn’t so much what we do or how much we’re paid; it’s the satisfaction we take in
doing it. In broad terms, my job entails locating witnesses and missing persons, following paper trails
through the hall of records, sitting surveillance on insurance scammers, and sometimes tailing the
errant spouse. My prime talent is snooping, which sometimes includes a touch of breaking and
entering. This is entirely naughty of me and I’m ashamed to confide how much fun it can be, but only if
I don’t get caught.

This is the truth about me and you might as well know it now. I’m passionate about all manner of
criminals: killers, thieves, and mountebanks, the pursuit of whom I find both engaging and
entertaining. Life’s cheaters are everywhere and my mission is to eradicate the lot of them. I know
this speaks volumes about the paucity of my personal life, but that’s my nature in a nutshell.

My quest for law and order began in the first grade when I ventured into the cloakroom and

surprised a classmate snitching a chocolate bar from my Howdy Doody lunch box. The teacher
appeared at that very moment and caught the child with my candy in hand. I anticipated due process,
but the sniveling little shit burst into tears, claiming I’d stolen it from her. She received no
punishment at all while I was reprimanded for leaving my seat without raising my hand and asking to
be excused. My teacher turned a deaf ear to my howls of protest. From that singular event, my notion
of fair play was set, and, in sum, it is this: the righteous are struck down while the sticky-fingered
escape. I’ve labored all my life to see that justice plays out the other way around.

That particular Monday morning, I was paying my bills, feeling oh-so virtuous, as why would I
not? I’d written and signed all the pertinent checks and felt only slightly anxious about the drain on my
funds. I’d addressed and sealed the return envelopes. As I licked and placed stamps, I was humming
with satisfaction and looking forward to lunch. When the phone rang, I lifted the handset and anchored
it against my shoulder, saying, “Millhone Investigations.”

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Ruthie. Did I catch you at an okay time?”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m fit to be tied. I swear, about the time I think I’m through the worst of it, something else
comes up. Today I got this official-looking letter from the IRS. Pete’s being audited, of all things. I’m
supposed to call to set up an appointment.”
“Can’t you tell them he’s dead?”
“I could, but that’s probably what triggered the audit in the first place.”
Ruthie Wolinsky had been widowed some seven months before, in August of 1988, when her
husband was shot to death in what looked like a robbery gone wrong. I’d made Pete Wolinsky’s
acquaintance ten years prior. Like me, he was a private detective, who’d worked for an agency called
Byrd-Shine Investigations. I’d apprenticed with Ben Byrd and Morley Shine when I was racking up
the hours I needed for licensing. Pete was a contemporary of theirs. Both of my bosses swore he was
once a top-notch detective, but at the point where our paths intersected, he’d fallen on hard times. By
then, he was a man so morally bent, I marveled he managed to find work anywhere. While I disliked
him, I was then twenty-seven years old and newly employed and didn’t feel it was my place to make
my thoughts known. Besides which, no one asked and I doubt they’d have listened if I’d volunteered
my views.
I’d thought the world of the two seasoned detectives, and I still conducted business in the time-
honored ways they’d taught me. Unfortunately, Ben and Morley had quarreled bitterly and the
partnership had been dissolved. They went their separate ways, setting up independent agencies. I
was already out on my own by then and never heard the details of their falling-out. Whatever the
dispute, it had nothing to do with me, so I shrugged it off. Now both were deceased and I assumed the
past was dead and buried along with them. As for Ruthie, over the years I’d seen her from time to
time, but we didn’t become friends until shortly after Pete was killed.
I pondered the historical context while she went on to describe the latest crisis, saying, “Sorry to
bother you with this, but let me read you what it says. They’re asking for ‘Schedule C gross receipts.
Year-end papers and reports, including worksheets reconciling books and records for the tax years
1986 and 1987.’” She continued in a singsong voice. “‘In addition, please provide any and all
business records, files, expenses, and receipts for the period 1975 through 1978.’”
“Are you kidding me? That goes back fifteen years. I thought after seven you could throw that crap
out.”
“I guess not, at least according to this. Our accountant retired last year, and I’m having a devil of a
time getting through to the fellow who took over for him. I was hoping when you and Dietz went

through Pete’s boxes, you might have come across our old tax returns.”
Robert Dietz was the Nevada private investigator whose help I’d enlisted during the period just

after Pete was killed. Much more to the story, of course, but I made a point of putting it out of my
mind. “I don’t think so. I can’t swear to it, but the whole point was tracking down his accounts, so
anything with a dollar sign attached we shoved in plastic bags, which we handed over to you.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I’ve searched those bags twice and there’s zilch.”
“You want me to try again? It’s always possible we missed a box.”
“That’s just it. I don’t have them. All those cartons are gone.”
“Where?”
“The dump. A junk dealer taped a flier to my door. He must have been cruising the area, scaring up
work. The notice said for fifty bucks in cash, he’d clean out my garage and haul the mess away. I
jumped at the chance. I’ve wanted to park my car under cover for years, but there was never any
room. Now I’m looking at an audit and what am I supposed to do? I’m just sick about this.”
“I don’t know what to suggest. I can double-check, but if we’d come across tax returns, we’d have
set them aside. I did keep one box, but those are confidential files from the old Byrd-Shine days. I
have no idea how they ended up in Pete’s hands.”
“Oh, wait a minute. The IRS does list Byrd-Shine in the document request, now you mention it.
Hold on.”
I heard papers rattling, and then she said, “I can’t find the reference now, but it’s in here
somewhere. You don’t need to bother Dietz, but could you check the box you have? I don’t need
much; I’m guessing a few old bank statements would suffice. If I can hand over anything, it would be
a show of good faith, which is about all I have to offer.”
“I’ll inventory the contents as soon as possible.”
“No big hurry. I’m driving up to Lompoc this coming weekend to celebrate my birthday with a
friend—”
“I didn’t know it was your birthday. Happy birthday!”
“Thanks. We’re not doing much . . . just hanging out . . . but I haven’t seen her since Pete died and I
thought it’d be nice to get away.”
“Absolutely. When do you get back?”
“Sunday afternoon, which gives you some wiggle room. Even if I called the IRS today, I doubt I’d
get in right away. They must have a waiting list a mile long,” she said. “Oh. And while you’re at it,
keep this in mind: Pete had a habit of tucking stray documents between the pages of other files.
Sometimes he’d hide money, too, so don’t toss out any hundred-dollar bills.”
“I remember the wad of cash he buried in the bag of birdseed.”
“That was something, wasn’t it? He claimed the system was designed to fool the bad guys. He
could remember where he’d put all the bits and pieces, but he wouldn’t explain his strategy. Anyway,
I’m sorry to trouble you with this. I know it’s a pain.”
“Not a big deal. Fifteen or twenty minutes tops.”
“I appreciate that.”
“In the meantime, you better talk to a tax expert.”
“Ha! I can’t afford one.”
“Better that than getting hosed.”
“Good point. My neighbor’s an attorney. I’ll ask him who he knows.”
We chatted briefly of other matters and then we hung up. Once again, I found myself brooding about
Pete Wolinsky, which I was doing more often than I care to admit. In the wake of his death, it became

clear how irresponsible he’d been, leaving Ruthie with little more than a mess on her hands. His
business files, such as they were, had been relegated to countless dusty and dilapidated cardboard
boxes, stacked ten deep and eight high in their two-car garage, filling the interior to capacity. In
addition, there were piles of unpaid bills, dunning notices, threats of lawsuits, and no life insurance.
Pete had carried a policy that would have netted her a handsome sum, but he’d let the premiums
lapse. Even so, she adored him, and who was I to judge?

To be fair about it, I suppose you could call him a good-hearted soul, as long as you included an
asterisk referring to the small print below. As a perfect example, Pete had told Ruthie he was taking
her on a cruise on the Danube for their fortieth wedding anniversary coming up the following year.
He’d intended to surprise her, but he couldn’t help revealing the plan in advance. The real surprise
came after his death, when she found out he was paying for the trip with money he’d extorted in a
blackmail scheme. She asked for the deposit back and used the refund to satisfy some of his creditors,
and that was that. In the meantime, she wasn’t hurting for income. Ruthie was a private-duty nurse,
and her services were much in demand. From the schedule I’d seen taped to her refrigerator door, she
worked numerous shifts and could probably name her price regardless of the going rate.

As for the banker’s box, I’d put a big black X on the lid and shoved it under the desk in my studio
apartment, so the task would have to wait until I got home. I’d been meaning to inspect the contents in
any event. If, as I anticipated, the old files were inactive or closed, I’d send them to a shredding
company and be done with it.

I’d no more than hung up when the phone rang again. I reached for the handset, saying, “Millhone
Investigations.”

There was a pause, and a woman said, “Hello?”
I said, “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry. I was expecting a machine. May I speak to Ms. Millhone?”
Her tone was refined, and even through the phone line I could smell money on her breath. “This is
she,” I said.
“My name is Hallie Bettancourt. Vera Hess suggested I get in touch with you about a personal
matter.”
“That was nice of her. She had an office next door to mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I
worked once upon a time,” I said. “I take it you’re a friend of hers?”
“Well, no. We met at a party a few weeks ago. We were having drinks on the patio, and when I
mentioned the issue, she thought you might help.”
“I’ll do what I can. Would you give me your name again? I’m afraid it went right over my head.”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “Bettancourt. First name, Hallie. I do that myself. In one ear and
out the other.”
“Amen,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a quick summary of the problem?”
She hesitated. “The situation’s awkward, and I’d prefer not to discuss it by phone. I think when I
explain, you’ll understand.”
“That’s entirely up to you,” I said. “We can set up an appointment and you can talk about it then.
What’s your schedule look like this week?”
She laughed uncomfortably. “That’s just it. I’m under a time constraint. I leave town tomorrow
morning and won’t be back until June. If there’s any way we could meet tonight, I’d be grateful.”
“I can probably manage that. Where and what time?”
“Here at my home at eight o’clock, if that’s all right with you. From what I’m told, it’s not a big
job. To be honest about it, I contacted another agency last week and they turned me down, which was

embarrassing. The gentleman I spoke with was nice about it, but he made it clear the work wouldn’t
warrant the size of their fees. He didn’t come right out and say so, but the implication was that they
had much bigger fish to fry. I guess I’ve been gun-shy about reaching out again, which is why I put it
off.”

“Understood,” I said. “We’ll talk this evening and see where we stand. If I can’t help, I may know
someone who can.”

“Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am.”
I made a note of the address on Sky View, along with her instructions, and told her I’d be there at
8:00. I was guessing her problem was matrimonial, which turned out to be true, but not quite as I
imagined it. Once I hung up, I checked my city map and located the street, which was no bigger than a
thread of pale blue surrounded by blank space. I folded the map and stuck it in my shoulder bag.
At 5:00, I locked the office and headed for home, feeling pleased about life. As my appointment
wasn’t for three hours, I had time for a bite to eat, supping on milk of tomato soup and a gooey grilled
cheese sandwich, which I held in a fold of paper towel that neatly soaked up the excess butter. While
I ate, I read three chapters of a Donald Westlake paperback. In hindsight, I marvel at how clueless I
was about the shit storm to come. What I ask myself even now is whether I should have picked up the
truth any faster than I did, which was not nearly fast enough.

2

Approaching Hallie Bettancourt’s property that night, I realized I’d caught glimpses of the house from
the freeway on numerous occasions; it was perched on a ridge that ran between the town and the outer
reaches of the Los Padres National Forest. By day, sun reflected off the glass exterior, winking like
an SOS. At night, the glow was a bright spot, as vivid as Venus against the pale light of surrounding
stars. From a distance, it was one of those aeries that seemed impossible to reach, isolated from its
neighbors at an elevation sufficient to encourage nosebleeds. The access roads weren’t obvious, and
without Hallie’s instructions, I’m not sure I’d have found my way.

She’d indicated the easiest route was to follow 192 East as far as Winding Canyon Road and then
start the ascent. I did as she suggested, taking the narrow two-lane road that snaked up the hill with
more switchbacks than straightaways. A mile and a half farther on, I spotted the house number blasted
into the surface of a massive sandstone boulder. There was a mailbox nearby, which also touted the
address, but the house itself wasn’t visible from the road. The driveway angled upward through a
thicket of oaks, a precipitous approach that ran on for another quarter of a mile.

When I neared the crest of the hill, the house loomed above me like an apparition. If an alien
spacecraft had landed, I imagined it would have had the same nearly menacing presence. Against the
shadowy landscape, the stark structure blazed with light, the contemporary style oddly suited to the
rugged terrain. The front jutted forward like the prow of a ship and appeared to hang out over the
canyon; a sailboat made of glass. Vegetation broke in waves, churning among the concrete pilings,
and the wind blew with a high whine.

A parking pad had been hacked out of the stony ground. I pulled in, nosing my Honda up against a
stone retaining wall. I got out and locked the car. As I walked, I triggered a series of motion-activated
landscape lights that illuminated the path in front of me. I climbed the steep stone steps to the door,
careful where I placed my feet lest I topple into the chaparral that stretched out on either side.

From the front porch, as I faced the glass-fronted door, I had an unobstructed view straight through
the house to the dark beyond. The Pacific was visible two miles away, where moonlight cast a gray
sheen on the water like a thin layer of ice. The ribbon of Highway 101 wound between the shoreline
and the town, and a lacework of house lights was draped across the intervening hills. Large patches
of darkness attested to the rural character of the area. There were no neighbors close by, and the
simplest of daily needs (such as wine and toilet paper) would require a lengthy drive into town.

I rang the bell and saw Hallie appear on the wraparound deck on the far side of the house. She
entered the dining room by way of a sliding glass door, a caftan of butter yellow silk billowing
around her as she crossed the room. She had a tangled mass of reddish brown hair and a face
photographers must have loved. While she wasn’t technically beautiful, she was striking. Fine-boned,
high forehead. Her complexion was flawless and her narrow nose was prominent, with a bump at the
bridge that lent her profile an exotic cast. Her ears were pierced, and a little waterfall of diamonds
dangled on either side of her face. The caftan had wide sleeves and intricate embroidery along the
cuffs. Only a woman who’s genuinely slim can afford a garment so voluminous. Pointed yellow
velvet slippers peeked from beneath her hem. I placed her in her midforties.

She opened the door and extended her hand. “Hello, Kinsey. I’m Hallie. Thanks for making the

drive. I apologize for the imposition.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “This is quite a place.”
She flushed with pleasure, saying, “Isn’t it?”
She led the way and I followed as she moved through the house toward the deck. Much of the

interior was shrouded in darkness, the furniture covered with tarps in preparation for her departure.
When I glanced to my left, I could see that doors leading off the hallway were closed. On the wide
stretch of wood flooring, I could see islands of lush-looking Oriental carpeting. Lamps glowed here
and there, lighting up decorative vignettes of tasteful objects, artfully arranged.

To our right, a two-story wood-and-glass living room took up one whole end of the house. It, too,
was blanketed in shadow, but a spill of light from the dining room reflected clean lines against the
generous expanses of exterior glass. Bare white walls formed a gallery for numerous paintings in
heavy gold frames. I’m not a connoisseur of art, but they appeared to be museum-quality works:
landscapes and still-life images in oil. These were not artists I could identify on sight, but the colors
were rich and deep, and my impression was that a lot of money had been spent for the collection.

Over her shoulder, Hallie said, “I hope you won’t be cold if we sit outside. I’ve been enjoying the
view. My husband left this morning for the house in Malibu while I close up here.”

“Must be nice to split your time that way,” I said. Personally, I split mine between my eight-
hundred-square-foot apartment and an office half that size.

We went out onto the deck. Exterior lights had been extinguished, and in the lee of the house, the air
seemed hushed. I could smell bay laurel, eucalyptus, and night-blooming jasmine. On a narrow
terrace below, a bright turquoise infinity pool glowed like a landing strip. An open bottle of
Chardonnay sat on a small wooden table flanked by two canvas director’s chairs. She’d brought out
two stemmed glasses, and I saw that hers was half full. She took the closest chair and I settled in its
mate.

She offered wine, which I declined as a way of demonstrating how professional I was. To be
honest, with the slightest encouragement (bracing outside temperatures aside) I’d have lingered there
for hours, drinking in the view along with anything else she had to offer. We were flanked by two
small propane heaters that radiated a fierce but diffused heat that made me want to hold my hands
closer, as though to a campfire.

Santa Teresa is almost always chilly after sunset, and once I sat down, I found myself wedging my
fingers between my knees. I was wearing blue jeans and boots with a black turtleneck under my good
wool tweed blazer, so I was warm enough, but I wondered how she could bear the night air in such
flimsy attire, especially with the wind whistling around the edges of the glass. Locks of flyaway hair
danced around her face. She removed two hairpins that she held between her teeth while she captured
the loose strands and secured them again.

“How long have you owned the house?” I asked.
“I grew up here. This is the old Clipper estate. My father bought it in the early thirties, shortly after
he graduated from architectural school. Halston Bettancourt. You may have heard of him.”
I made a sound as though of recognition, though I didn’t have a clue.
“After he razed the original three-story Georgian-style mansion, he built this, which is how he
launched his career. He was always proud of the fact that he was featured in Architectural Digest
more than any other single architect. He’s been gone now for years, and my mother has as well. The
place in Malibu belongs to my husband, Geoff. He’s a G-E-O-F-F Geoff, not the J-E-F-F kind. We’ve
been married two years.”
“What sort of work does he do?”

“He has a law degree, but he doesn’t have a job as such. He manages both of our portfolios and
looks after our finances.”

Fragmented as it was, I had no idea where her commentary was taking us, but I was making mental
notes. I couldn’t help but wonder how the neighbors felt when her father demolished the old estate
and erected this in its place. The house was dramatic, but distinctly short on eighteenth-century charm.

From her remarks, I drew the two obvious inferences: she’d retained her maiden name and she’d
held on to the family home. I could imagine her insisting that G-E-O-F-F Geoffrey sign an ironclad
prenuptial agreement: separate properties, separate bank accounts, a cheater’s clause, and zero
spousal support in the event of a split. On the other hand, his fortune might have been more substantial
than hers, in which case any stingy financial arrangements might have been his idea.

She crossed her legs and smoothed the yellow silk over one knee, idly pleating the fabric. “I should
tell you again how much I appreciate your agreeing to meet like this. Under the circumstances, it’s a
relief doing business with a woman. No disrespect to men intended, but some things a woman
understands intuitively—‘from the heart,’ you might say.”

Now I was thinking about big gambling debts or an affair with a married man. It was also possible
her new husband had an unsavory past and she’d just gotten wind of it.

She reached down and picked up a file folder that rested against the side of her chair. She opened
the folder, removed a paper clip, and passed the loose pages to me along with a penlight to make
reading easier. I was looking at a photocopy of a newspaper article. I checked the date and heading:
the Santa Teresa Dispatch, June 21, 1979; approximately ten years earlier. The article covered the
trial of a kid named Christian Satterfield, a safecracker who’d finally been defeated by a run of
cutting-edge vaults and had thrown that career over in favor of robbing banks, which was a much
simpler proposition. No maddening array of alarms and exasperating anti-theft devices. Robbing
banks entailed pithy notes directed to bank tellers, no weapons, and no mechanical skills. The work
was quicker, too.

He’d enjoyed a string of successes, but eventually his luck had run out. He’d been convicted of
robbing nineteen banks in the tri-counties area, an impressive number for someone a mere twenty-
three years old. The photograph that accompanied the story revealed a clean-cut young man with good
facial bones and an open countenance. The three-column coverage on the front page continued for an
additional four columns on page four, laying out the reasoning for his choice of banks, his meticulous
advance planning, and the carefully worded notes he’d composed. I could picture him licking his
pencil point, trying to get the written threats just so, all of the spelling correct and no cross-outs.

I scanned the lines of print, picking up a detail here and there. His successes had netted him close
to $134,000 over a period of sixteen months. In his demands, he claimed to be armed, and while he
never actually brandished a gun, the tellers were sufficiently intimidated to surrender the cash without
an argument. Though this was standard bank policy, three of the young women were so traumatized,
they never returned to work.

Hallie waited until I’d finished reading and handed me a folded newspaper with an arrow calling
my attention to a notice dated six months before. Satterfield had been released, having served a little
over eight years, which I was guessing represented 85 percent of a ten-year bid.

“As you can see, he was released from Lompoc to a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley.
Since he was a Santa Teresa resident when he was arrested and tried, I’m told he’s most likely been
returned to the community by now. I wondered if you could get me his current contact information. I
called the county probation department twice and got nowhere.”

Her manner of speaking had become more formal, suggesting she was ill at ease. The United States

Penitentiary at Lompoc is a federal prison located an hour north of us. The facility opened in 1959
and houses male inmates serving long sentences for sophisticated offenses: white-collar crime,
interstate drug deals, tax evasion, and major fraud. As a bank robber, Satterfield must have felt right
at home. I wondered about the nature of her interest in him. To me, the two seemed an odd mix.

I said, “He wouldn’t have been released to the county. His crime was federal. You’d have to call
the U.S. probation department and ask for the name of the agent supervising his parole.”

She frowned. “I’m not happy with that idea. I don’t know the system and I’d only end up at another
dead end. This whole process has been frustrating enough as it is. I leave town early tomorrow. We’ll
be in Malibu for a few days, and after that we’ll be traveling. I’d prefer to have you deal with the
situation. As you might well imagine, I have no experience with matters of this sort.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I make no guarantees,” I said. “Parole officers are notoriously tight-lipped.”
“All the more reason for you to handle it. I assume your inquiry will be discreet.”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said. “Once you have his address and phone number, you can send me a note in care
of my post office box. My assistant will know where we are and she’ll be forwarding mail twice a
week.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
She paused, her gaze not quite meeting mine. “He’s my son.”
Intuitively and from the heart, I hadn’t seen that one coming and I was taken aback. I said, “Ah.”
“I became pregnant and bore a child when I was fifteen years old. If the choice had been mine, I’d
have kept the baby and raised him myself, but my parents were adamant. They felt I was too young
and too immature to take on such a burden; a point I could hardly refute. They were convinced he’d be
better off in a two-parent home. Given his criminal history, they were obviously mistaken in that
regard.”
“Does he know who you are?”
Her cheeks tinted slightly. “He does. Some years ago I wrote him a letter in care of the adoption
agency. The social worker said she’d keep it in his file. I wanted to make sure he’d have a way to
reach me if he were ever interested.”
“And did you hear from him?”
“I did. He called shortly after his eighteenth birthday. We met twice, and then I lost track of him.
When I saw the brief note about his release from Lompoc, his silence suddenly made sense. That’s
when I went back and did a follow-up search in the archives at the Dispatch.”
I glanced at the article. “You first learned he’d been in prison when you saw this?”
“That’s correct. I don’t ordinarily read the Dispatch, but I spotted a copy as I was leaving my
dentist’s office. When I caught sight of the name, I was so shocked, I had to sit down for a moment
and catch my breath. I was also deeply ashamed, as though the fault were mine. I took my time
deciding what I wanted to do.”
“And that would be what?”
“I’d like to help him if there’s anything he needs.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s not about generosity. It’s about making amends.”
“Does he know how well-off you are?”
Her expression became set. “What difference does that make?”
“You’re not worried he might try to take advantage?”
“If he were going to do that, he’d have done so years ago. I’ve never made a secret of my financial

position. I offered him money in the past and he declined.”
“What if he’s embarrassed about his felony conviction and doesn’t want to hear from you?”
“If he decides not to talk to me, then so be it, but I want him to have the opportunity. I feel a sense

of responsibility.” She picked up the wine bottle to top off her glass and the label caught my eye. I’d
seen the same Chardonnay at the liquor store for ninety bucks a pop. While I didn’t actually gasp
aloud, she must have deciphered my look and held out the bottle. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to talk you
into it.”

“Maybe half a glass.”
I watched her pour, taking advantage of the moment to assess her situation. “What about your
husband? Where is he in this?”
“Geoffrey knows I had a child and put him up for adoption. All of this happened years before the
two of us met. What he doesn’t know is that we reconnected, and he certainly doesn’t know about
Christian’s serving a prison term. I intend to tell him, but so far I haven’t felt the time was right.”
“I can see where it might be an awkward revelation to spring on him after the fact.”
“On the other hand, if my son doesn’t care to pursue a relationship, why mention it at all? Once you
’fess up, you’re stuck. Geoffrey hates deception and he’s slow to forgive. There’s no point in creating
trouble unnecessarily.”
“Indeed,” I said. Without even meaning to, I was echoing the tone and manner of her speech, and I
was hoping the shift wasn’t permanent.
“That’s why I’m asking you to act as a go-between, using your name and phone number instead of
mine. I don’t want to risk my husband’s intercepting a message before I’ve told him the whole of it.”
“You don’t want your name brought into it at all,” I said.
“I do not.”
“What reason would I give for tracking him down? I’ve never met Christian Satterfield.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse. The point is, I want my privacy protected. I’ll insist on that.”
I sat there wondering if this was really the way a good marriage worked. I’d been married and
divorced twice, so it was difficult to judge. Keeping secrets seemed like a bad idea, but I was hardly
qualified to offer the woman marital advice. Aside from that, I’ve never had children, so the notion of
a bank robber for a son was tough to assimilate. His stepdad might take an even dimmer view.
Reluctantly, I said, “I’m not sure a parole officer will give me the information, but I’ll do what I
can.” I studied the black-and-white newspaper photograph and then held up the photocopied pages.
“May I keep these? Might be good if I need to identify him on sight.”
She reached into the file folder a second time and handed me duplicates. I murmured a thank-you
and slid the papers into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag.
“So how do we proceed?” she asked.
“Most new clients sign a boiler-plate contract,” I said. “Over the years, I’ve found it’s better to
have an agreement in writing, as much for your protection as for mine. That way there’s no confusion
about what I’ve been asked to do. In this case, I didn’t bring any paperwork. I wanted to make sure I
could be of help before I did anything else.”
“Sensible,” she said. “As I see it, we can do one of two things. You can write up the contract, fill
in the particulars, and mail it for my signature, or we can consider this a gentleman’s agreement and I
can pay you in cash.”
There wasn’t really much to debate. I’m not equipped to take credit cards, and she must have
sensed I wasn’t eager to accept a check from a woman who was out of Santa Teresa half the year. She
was clearly well-to-do, but if a check was returned for insufficient funds, it would be a pain in the ass

to track her down and make it good. The rich are full of surprises. Some hang on to their wealth by
stiffing their creditors.

“Does five hundred dollars seem reasonable?” she asked.
“Too much,” I said. “We’re talking about a few phone calls and then a short written report. Two
hundred would more than cover it.”
“Unless you fail.”
“You’re paying for my time, not results. The effort’s the same regardless of the outcome.”
“Sorry. Of course. I don’t expect you to work without compensation. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll
be right back.”
She got up, crossed to the sliding glass door, and went into the house. I took a sip of Chardonnay,
feeling for the first time that I could relax. She’d been clear enough about what she wanted, and while
acquiring the information wasn’t a slam dunk, I had avenues to pursue.
Moments later, she returned with a plain white envelope. She made a point of showing me a
portion of the two one-hundred-dollar bills before she slid them fully into the envelope and handed it
to me. I put the money in my shoulder bag and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook. I wrote her a
receipt for the cash and tore off the leaf of paper. “I can type up a proper receipt at the office
tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is fine.” She folded the handwritten receipt and slipped it into the file
folder.
“A few things I should ask,” I said.
“Feel free.”
I went through a list of items I thought needed covering and she seemed happy to oblige, so that by
the time we parted company, I had her home address and a mailing address in Malibu, the Malibu
home phone, plus her husband’s office address and two additional numbers for him at work. Her
assistant’s name was Amy. Later, I realized I should have asked for Geoffrey’s last name, but it
hadn’t occurred to me.
Once in my car again, I sat in the darkened parking area while the motion-activated path lights went
out one by one. Using the Honda’s interior light, I jotted notes on a series of index cards that I carry
with me as a matter of course. I don’t know if she was aware that I was still on the property, but it
mattered not. It’s always best to capture facts when they’re fresh, before assumption and prejudice
step in and alter memory.
On the way home, I stopped at the market and stocked up on odds and ends, including paper towels,
milk, bread, and peanut butter. Easter decorations and accessories were set up in numerous displays:
Easter egg dyeing kits, hollow plastic eggs, foil-covered eggs, big foil-covered chocolate bunnies,
marshmallow chickens of a virulent yellow hue, bags of paper shreds resembling grass, wicker and
plastic baskets, as well as stuffed animals to be included in the haul.
At that hour, there weren’t many shoppers, and since I was the only one in line, I had a nice chat
with Suzanne, the middle-aged checkout girl. I paid for my groceries with one of Hallie’s hundred-
dollar bills, amazed by how little change I was given in return.
I was home by 10:00. I locked up, put away the groceries, grabbed my book, and went upstairs to
the loft, where I changed into the oversize T-shirt I sleep in. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and
slid under the covers. Once I found my place, I read until midnight, thinking life was swell.

3

In the morning, I did my usual three-mile jog on autopilot. Given the monotony of the weather, there
was no chance I’d be gifted with the pleasure of a rainy-day sleep-in. Local homeowners were in
such a panic to install low-flow toilets and low-flow showerheads that the retailers couldn’t keep up
with the demand. A vote on water rationing was in the works. In the meantime, we were voluntarily
cutting back on usage.

I’d always made a point of turning off the faucet while I was brushing my teeth. Now even flushing
the commode was restricted to only the most serious of business. Everyone (well, almost everyone)
in the community pitched in with the conservation effort, primarily because failure to cooperate
warranted a stern reproach from the public works department. We were not yet being subjected to
neighborhood incursions of the water police, but there were threats to that effect.

I was home by 6:45, including my cooldown and a perfunctory stretch. After that I showered,
shampooing my hair, and donned jeans, a navy blue turtleneck, and my boots. I trotted down the spiral
stairs and helped myself to a bowl of Cheerios with 2 percent milk. I had the local television news on
in the background, trying to ignore the chirpy weather pundit.

Today it was “Partly sunny.”
Yesterday, “Patchy A.M. clouds, then partly to mostly sunny.”
Tomorrow, “Partly sunny.”
For the weekend, we were promised a “sunny” Saturday and a Sunday marked by “partial sun with
areas of A.M. clouds, clearing in the afternoon.” For the following week, “mostly clear and sunny with
early-morning fog.”
I wanted to yell, “Shut up, already!” but I couldn’t see the point.

•••

My three-room office is on a side street that occupies one short block in the heart of downtown Santa
Teresa in walking distance of the police station, the courthouse, and the public library. I rent the
center bungalow of three that resemble the fairy-tale cottages of the Three Little Pigs. I’ve been in the
location now for two years, and while the space isn’t slick, at $350 a month, it’s affordable.

The outer office serves as a library/reception area. I have a bookcase, an upright cupboard with
cubbyholes, and a secondhand armoire that holds my office supplies. There’s also room for extra
chairs in case more clients flock in. This has never actually happened, but I’m prepared for it
nonetheless. The inner office is where I have my desk, my swivel chair, two guest chairs, file
cabinets, and assorted office machines.

Halfway down the hall, there’s a tiny bathroom that I recently painted a deep chocolate brown on
the theory that a tiny room will always look like a tiny room even if you paint it white, so you might
as well pick a color you like. At the end of that same short corridor, I have a kitchenette that harbors a
sink, a small refrigerator, a microwave, a coffeemaker, a Sparkletts water dispenser, and a door that
opens to the outside.

I arrived at 8:00, and while I waited for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, I placed a call to the Santa
Teresa County Probation Offices and asked to speak to Priscilla Holloway, a parole agent I’d met

while babysitting a female ex-con with a wealthy dad, who’d paid me handsomely to shepherd her
about.

When the line was picked up, she said, “Holloway.”
“Hi, Priscilla. Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you remember me . . .”
“Reba Lafferty’s friend.”
“Right. You have a minute?”
“Only if you make it quick. I have a client coming in for his monthly ass-kicking, so I gotta get
myself in the proper frame of mind. What can I do for you?”
“I need a phone number for the U.S. probation office, Central California district. I’m trying to track
down an inmate just coming off a ten-year stint in Lompoc.”
“Any agent in particular?”
“No clue. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”
“Hang on. I have the number somewhere.”
She clunked the receiver on the desk. I could hear her sliding open a drawer and then rustling
paper. After a short period, she came back and said, “The parole officer I last dealt with was a guy
named Derrick Spanner, but this was three years ago, so who knows if he’s still there. This is his
direct line in Los Angeles. Area code 2-1-3 . . .”
She gave me the number and I dutifully made a note. I thanked her, but she was gone before the
words were even out of my mouth.
I depressed the plunger and then punched in the number. The line rang three times before an
answering machine picked up. The outgoing message confirmed that I’d reached Derrick Spanner, so I
identified myself by name, pausing to spell it before I said, “I’m calling from Santa Teresa, trying to
contact a parolee named Christian Satterfield. I understand he was released from USP Lompoc a few
months ago. I’m not sure who’s overseeing his parole, but Chris is a former neighbor and he left some
personal items in my care. I’ve since moved and I’d appreciate your giving him my new number. He
can call when he has a chance. Thanks so much.”
I repeated my name and rattled off my office phone, without pausing to think. The minute the
number was out of my mouth, I regretted the choice. If the information was passed along to
Satterfield, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea who I was, and if he dialed the number I’d given, the
first thing he’d hear was me saying “Millhone Investigations.” This was not good. For a fellow just
out of prison, the notion of an investigation, private or otherwise, would be worrisome. He’d think I
was up to something, which I was.
I hung up, thought a minute, and then crossed to my file cabinets, where I opened a drawer and
picked my way through the folders until I found the instruction manual for my answering machine.
Once I figured out how to change the outgoing message, I recorded one of those generic responses that
covers a multitude of sins.
“The party you’ve reached in the 805 area code is currently unavailable. Please leave your name
and number at the sound of the tone and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”
Once that was done, I thought, Now what?
Hallie Bettancourt hadn’t paid me to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. She hired me to do
something else, which was to find her jailbird of a son. Who knew when Derrick Spanner would get
around to checking his messages or if he’d actually pass along my name and phone number to
Christian Satterfield? Even if Satterfield got the message, I had no confidence he’d call. There had to
be another way to get to him.
I opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the telephone book—that hoary source of

information so easy to overlook. There were twelve listings under “Satterfield” with home addresses
that ranged from Santa Teresa proper to Colgate on the north end of town and Montebello to the south.
A few were designated with single initials and phone numbers, but no addresses, which was useless
for my purposes. I set the matter aside while I went about other business. Tax time was coming up,
and I had receipts to sort in preparation for delivery to my accountant.

By the time I reached home that afternoon, it was 5:15 and the light was fading. Now that we were
in March, the days were getting longer, but the chill in the air suggested winter wasn’t ready to
concede to spring. I found a parking place half a block away and hoofed it to my apartment, pausing to
pull the mail out of the box before I let myself through the squeaky gate. I angled right, rounded the
side of the studio, and moved into the backyard. Henry’s lawn was brown, and half his shrubbery had
died.

There was a wheelbarrow and spade in the grassy area beyond Henry’s flagstone patio, but no sign
of him. New to the scene was the recently excavated fifteen-foot half circle that now encompassed
two fruit trees at the edge of his dead lawn. He’d mounded the bed with fifty pounds of bark mulch,
judging from the empty bags he’d left nearby. I also spotted a hose dangling from his bathroom
window, and that stopped me momentarily. What the heck was that about? Probably a water-saving
scheme of some sort.

I shrugged to myself and continued to my front door, keys at the ready. As I let myself in, I caught a
flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Henry’s cat, Ed, shot out of the bushes and across the yard
in time to streak into my apartment ahead of me. He’d invented this game himself, timing his run to
catch me unawares. Inevitably, I forgot to check his whereabouts before I opened the door and he’d
slip through the gap to victory. Sometimes I didn’t even see him make his move and only discovered
him after the fact, when he announced his win. He was a chatty little thing. Once inside, he usually
slowed to a stop so he could sniff the shag carpet in case a mouse had left him a scented love note.
Neither Henry nor I had been aware of vermin on the property until Ed came to live with us. Now he
made regular patrols and left rodent remains on both our doormats as proof of his superior hunting
skills.

Henry had acquired the cat six months earlier, when his brother William carted him from Michigan
to California. Their older sister, Nell, who’d be turning one hundred years old on December 31, had
adopted the nameless cat as a stray. Soon afterward, she’d tripped over him, taking a nasty spill that
left her with a broken hip. William and Rosie had flown from Santa Teresa to Flint to assist with her
care. When another brother, Lewis, threatened to have the cat exterminated, William had taken it upon
himself to pass the beast along to Henry without permission or prior warning. This was not a good
plan. Henry had been vehemently opposed to keeping the cat, until the vet informed him that Ed was a
Japanese Bobtail, a rare and ancient breed known for their intelligence, their talkativeness, and their
affinity for human companionship. Henry had promptly named him Ed and now the two were
inseparable—except for those occasions when the cat came to visit me.

Henry and I had agreed that Ed would be strictly an indoor cat. The street we lived on wasn’t
subject to speeding cars, but there was sufficient traffic to be hazardous. There was also the issue of
the occasional dog running loose, and while we felt Ed could defend himself, he was too precious to
risk. Ed, of course, had other ideas, and we’d no sooner confine him to Henry’s house than he’d find a
way out. We were still trying to determine how he managed. It was embarrassing that he outwitted us
so easily.

I dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool, tossed the mail on my desk, and turned on a lamp in
my living room. There were no messages on my answering machine. Ed had leaped up on the counter,

where he was now reclining, watching me with interest, his devotion largely inspired by the fact that I
plied him with treats. I stepped into the kitchen and took out his bag of crunchy party mix. I opened the
package and tilted a selection into my palm. He chose a few kibbles shaped like chickens, leaving the
fish and mice for another occasion.

I put his treats away and then picked him up and carried him under one arm as I pushed the thumb
lock of the patio door to the open position, went out, and pulled the door shut behind me. Ed’s purring
was an audible rumble in the vicinity of my ribs as I crossed the patio. I knocked on Henry’s door. I
heard a muffled command, which I assumed was encouragement to let myself in. I peered through the
glass and spotted him lying on the floor, stretched out on his back. I could see shorts, long bare feet,
and a portion of his sweatshirt, while his head and shoulders were positioned halfway into the
cabinet under the kitchen sink.

I opened the door and stuck my head in. “Is everything okay?”
“Plumbing issue.” He exhibited a wrench, which he waved in my direction before he went back to
work. He’d placed a five-gallon plastic bucket on the floor to one side, along with an assortment of
cleansers, liquid dishwashing soap, window spray, sponges, and rusty S.O.S pads he usually kept out
of sight.
I set Ed down on all fours and closed the door behind me. “You have a leak?”
“I have a plan,” he said. He put the wrench down and inched his way carefully from under the
counter, holding a J-shaped ninety-degree fitting made of PVC. “Sink trap.”
“I can see that.”
He struggled to his feet, shaking his head at his own creakiness. Henry is eighty-nine years old and
in phenomenal shape for a man his age (or any other age, now that I think of it). He’s tall and lean,
with thick snow white hair and eyes the color of bluebells. He held up the trap and tilted it, emptying
the contents into the plastic bucket. “Water creates a seal that prevents sewer gas from passing from
the pipes back into the room.”
“I thought the trap was to catch stuff in case you dropped a pricy diamond ring down the drain.”
“It does that as well.” He moved the bucket into position under the sink, which I could see now
was filled with soapy water. “Watch this.”
He pulled the plug and the sink full of water drained noisily into the bucket below. “What you’re
looking at is Step One in my new water conservation system. I can dump this bucket full of gray water
in the toilet to make it flush. I can also use wastewater to irrigate my lawn.”
“Which is why you have a hose hanging out the bathroom window, yes?”
“You got it. I’ll keep the tub stoppered while I shower and then siphon the water out the window
into my shrubs. Think of all the city water I can save. I probably waste a gallon every time I run the
tap, waiting for the water to get hot. Last week, I ordered a book on gray water use, and we’ll see
what more we can do.”
“Sounds good. Is that a new flower bed?”
He looked at me blankly.
“I saw the empty mulch bags.”
“Oh! No, no. The mulch bed is there for purification purposes. You can’t store gray water for more
than twenty-four hours because of the bacteria content, so any runoff has to pass through healthy
topsoil.”
“News to me.”
“And to me as well. My big shock was the water bill, which jumped sky-high. I called the water
department and the woman checked the meter readings, which she swore were accurate. She says

landscape irrigation is the prime culprit. Household use is minimal by comparison. The more lawn I
can eliminate, the better off I’ll be. For the moment, the water department is asking us to voluntarily
reduce our usage by twenty percent. I’m hoping to get ahead of the game.”

“Well, I’m being careful.”
“I know that and I appreciate your efforts. We still have to tighten our belts. If the city restricts us
further, I want to be prepared.”
“You can count on me.”
He clapped his hands together once. “Let me change clothes and we can have supper up at Rosie’s.
With all this going on, I haven’t had a chance to shop today, let alone cook,” he said. “Almost forgot
to tell you. We have new neighbors.”
“Since when?”
“January first, from what I hear. Shallenbargers, on the driveway side. Joseph and Edna.”
“Good news. I knew the house was on the market, but I didn’t know it sold. I’m sure the Adelsons
are thrilled,” I said. “What’s the story? Are they young, old?”
“No one eighty-five and under is old. They’re retired. I just met them this morning. She and Joseph
were in the backyard, planting flowers on their little doggie’s grave.”
“What happened to him?”
“Her. Old age. She died shortly after they arrived. I guess they’d been expecting it because they
seemed to be bearing up okay. Joseph’s in a wheelchair, so he doesn’t get around so well. His
walker’s a bit of a struggle, too, when he’s crossing the grass.”
“At least they’re quiet. I had no idea anyone was living there.”
“She says now they’re settled, they plan to spruce up the place, which it could sorely use. Their
backyard used to look worse than mine. It’s already looking better than it did.”
He retreated down the hall on his way to his room, calling over his shoulder, “Help yourself to
wine. I’ll be right there.”
“I can wait,” I said.

4

We ambled the half block to Rosie’s through the gathering dark. Streetlights had come on, forming
shapeless yellow patches on the sidewalk. Once there, Henry opened the door and ushered me in
ahead of him. The tavern’s atmosphere was subdued, much as it had been before the place was taken
over by the local sports enthusiasts whose various league trophies still lined the shelf Rosie had had
installed above the bar. The 1988 football season had been capped by Super Bowl XXIII on Sunday,
January 22, when the 49ers defeated the Bengals by a score of 20–16. For reasons unknown, this had
triggered an exodus. One week the sports rowdies were in evidence; the next, they were gone. In one
of those inexplicable migrations of restaurant patrons, they’d abandoned Rosie’s as mysteriously as
they had appeared. Almost at once, police department personnel drifted in to fill the ecological niche.

Until recently, the favored hangout among cops had been the Caliente Café, or CC’s, as it was
known. Then on New Year’s Day, a kitchen fire had broken out, and by the time the fire engines
arrived a scant seven minutes later, the entire back side of the restaurant was engulfed in flames and
the better part of the structure was reduced to charcoal briquettes. There was some suggestion the
devastating fire wasn’t entirely accidental, but whatever the facts, the doors and windows had been
boarded over and there was no talk of reopening.

Rosie’s was off the beaten path and less than a mile away, which made it the natural successor for
those dispossessed of their watering hole. Rosie’s wasn’t a popular spot. The décor, if one could call
it such, was too tacky to attract a sophisticated crowd, and the ambience too staid to appeal to the
young. Now police officers and civilian employees stopped in after work and plainclothes detectives
from the criminal investigations division had begun to frequent the place, attracted by its anonymity.
The cheap prices also exerted an appeal. Absent were the chief of police, assistant chiefs, and others
in upper management, which was just as well.

In hopes of engendering loyalty, Rosie had purchased a popcorn machine. Napkin-lined baskets of
freshly popped corn were now stationed down the length of the bar with shakers of Parmesan cheese
and garlic salt. The smell of hot oil and burnt kernels formed a pungent counterpoint to the scent of
Hungarian spices that saturated the air.

It was early yet and neighborhood regulars would soon trickle in, augmented by off-duty police as
the evening wore on. For the time being, the television screen was blank and all of the overhead lights
were on, illuminating the dispirited collection of mix-and-match furnishings Rosie had assembled
from garage sales over the years. The secondhand chairs had wood or chrome frames with padded
vinyl plastic seats, and the Formica-topped tables were only made level through the tricky use of
shims. The wooden booths that lined the right-hand wall were darkly varnished, with surfaces
perpetually sticky to the touch.

William was behind the bar, polishing stemware. Rosie was perched on a bar stool, consulting a
collection of cookbooks that were open in front of her. There was only one other customer, and he sat
four stools away from her, his back turned while he read the newspaper and sipped a glass of beer.

As Henry and I took our seats, I glanced over and realized the lone man at the bar was Cheney
Phillips, who worked in the homicide unit at the Santa Teresa Police Department. Cheney was
roughly my age, with a dark mop of unruly curls as soft as a poodle’s coat. Brown-eyed, clean-

shaven. Two years before, we’d had what I suppose could be called a “romance,” though I feel
compelled to put the term in quotes. While the initial sparks had never taken hold, I didn’t think either
of us had ruled out the possibility. Now even the most casual encounter sometimes triggered intimate
images that made my cheeks color with embarrassment.

I pushed away from the table, saying to Henry, “I’ll be right back.”
“You want white wine, yes?” he asked.
“I do. Thanks.”
As usual, Cheney was nattily dressed: gray slacks, navy blazer, under which he wore a white dress
shirt with an expensive-looking silk tie in shades of gray.
I crossed to the bar and tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a pleasant surprise. I don’t usually see
you here at this hour. What’s up?”
He smiled. “I just finished my annual physical, for which I received a multitude of gold stars. I
thought that warranted a beer.”
“Congratulations. Good health deserves celebration.”
He lifted his glass. “To yours.”
Cheney Phillips came from money. His father owned a number of private financial institutions in
the area, while his mother sold high-end real estate. Both were perplexed when he forswore the
banking business in favor of the police academy. Once onboard at the STPD, he’d worked his way up
from traffic to his current position as a homicide detective, where the pay was adequate but no cause
for rejoicing. Still, Cheney managed to live well, which should have come as no surprise. Wealth
begets wealth. Some years before, his uncle had died and left him an inheritance that he’d used to
purchase a rambling two-story Victorian home next door to my friend Vera, whose house was its
mirror twin.
Rosie caught sight of me and her gaze flicked to Henry, alone at his table. She closed her
cookbooks, stood, and reached for an apron she tied around her waist. Idly, I watched her move
around behind the bar and pour a Black Jack over ice for him. William passed her a sparkling
wineglass and she filled it with Chardonnay and placed it on the bar in front of me. The wine would
be second-rate, but the service was superb. She delivered Henry’s whiskey, while Cheney pulled out
the stool next to him and patted it. “Have a seat. How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
As I settled next to him, I caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the familiar associations set off a
warning bell. I shifted into business mode.
“You’re actually just the man I was looking for,” I said. “You remember the name Christian
Satterfield? Convicted of nineteen counts of bank robbery, according to the Dispatch.”
“Know him well,” he said. “His last two jobs, he targeted the Bank of X. Phillips.”
“Your father’s bank?”
He pointed at me to confirm. “The dummy hit the same branch twice. First time, he walked off with
thirteen grand. Second time, my cousin Lucy Carson was at the teller’s window as a trainee, which
was bad news for him. He couldn’t find the note he’d written, so he told her he had a gun and
threatened to shoot her in the face if she didn’t empty her drawer and fork over the cash. He handed
her a canvas tote, so she did as requested and then pressed the button for the silent alarm.”
“Good for her. Serves him right. The paper said a couple of tellers were so stressed out, they quit.”
“Not her. Just the opposite. She testified at his trial, but downplayed the shooting threat. She said
he was a gentleman, soft-spoken and polite. She said she only went for the alarm because she could
see he was hurting and wanted to be caught. Once he went to prison, they carried on a feverish

correspondence, pouring out their hearts. Her more than him. He’s the kind of guy women think they
can rehabilitate.”

“She have any luck?”
“Nah. She was twenty-two years old and fickle as they come. Last I heard, she’d taken up with a
biker accused of killing his ex. Nothing like a bad boy in need of emotional support. What’s your
interest?”
“I’ve been asked to get a contact number for him now that he’s out on parole. This is for his bio-
mom, who’s got money to burn. She’d like to smooth his transition, should the need arise.”
“Nice.”
“I thought so myself. I left a message with one of the federal parole officers, but I don’t want to sit
around hoping he’ll call back. I figure when the kid was arrested, he must have listed a local address,
so I thought I’d start there.”
“I can help you with that. Back then, he was living with his mom over on Dave Levine. I’ll have
someone in Records pull up the address. I’ll call tomorrow and give you what we have.”
“I’d appreciate it. Can I buy you another beer?”
“Thanks, but I better pace myself. I’m having dinner with a friend.”
“Catch you later then,” I said as I slipped off the stool.
I returned to Henry’s table and took a seat.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Work.”
“Everything with you is work.”
“No, it’s not.”
Rosie reappeared and gave us each a setup: a paper napkin wrapped tightly around a knife, fork,
and spoon. She usually presented us with a mimeographed menu, which was strictly window
dressing, as she told us what she was serving us and brooked no argument. She tucked her hands
under her apron and rocked on her feet. “Tonight is big treat.”
“Do tell,” Henry said. “We can hardly wait.”
“Calf brain. Is very fresh. How I prepare is rinse and place in large bowl into what’s trickling cold
water from tap. I’m peeling off filament is like membrane covering. Then I’m soaking in vinegar
water one and haff hours, all the time cutting away white bits . . .”
Henry closed his eyes. “I may be coming down with something.”
I said, “Me too.”
Rosie smiled. “Just teasing. You should see the look on you two faces. Wait and I’m surprising
you.”
And surprise us she did. What she brought to the table were plates on which she’d created a visual
composition of grilled kielbasa, puffy fresh herb omelets oozing pale cheese, and two salads with a
light vinaigrette. To one side, she placed a basket of dinner rolls Henry’d made the day before. For
dessert, she served us baked plums wrapped in a flaky pastry with a cap of softly whipped cream.
We finished dinner and Henry took care of the check while I shrugged myself into my jacket. We’d
just stepped into the chilly night air when Anna Dace appeared, coming toward us through the newly
minted dark. The two of us were related, though I’d be hard-pressed to define the family connection,
which stretched back a generation to my grandmother, Rebecca Dace. My father was Anna’s father’s
favorite uncle, making us (perhaps) second cousins. I might also be her aunt. She had her hair pulled
up in a careless knot she’d secured with a clip. She wore a navy blue peacoat over jeans, and
military-style boots. I may have neglected to mention that she’s shamelessly pretty—not a trait I

consider relevant, though men seem to disagree.
She brightened when she caught sight of Henry and clutched him by the arm. “Hey, guess what? I

took your advice and put my money in mutual funds. I allocated the investment over the four types you
talked about.”

I stared at her. Allocated? Shit. Since when did she use words of more than one syllable?
She and her two siblings had come into money at the same time I did, though the source was
different. I’d expected all three of them to burn through the funds in a heartbeat. Being the mean-
spirited creature I am, I experienced a pang of disappointment that she was exhibiting good sense.
Henry said, “Not the whole of it, I hope.”
“No way. I set twenty grand aside in a separate account, so I’d have access to it. Not that I’d touch
it,” she added in haste.
“I’m giving you an A-plus,” he said.
“I invested in mutual funds. How come I didn’t get an A-plus?” I interjected. Neither paid the
slightest attention.
When Henry realized Anna was on her way in to Rosie’s, he pushed the door open again and held
it, allowing her to pass in front of him. As he did so, I looked up and saw a truncated slice of the
interior, a vertical slat that included a narrow view across the tables to the bar where Cheney sat. In
that split second, I saw him turn and catch sight of Anna. His face creased in a smile as he got up. The
door closed, but the image seemed to hang in the air.
Cheney’s throwaway line hadn’t really registered until then. Dinner with a friend? Since when
was Anna Dace a friend?

5

The next morning, the office phone was already ringing as I turned the key in the lock and pushed open
the door. The phone continued to ring as I crossed the outer office in giant steps and flung my bag on
my desk. I was poised to snatch up the handset when my outgoing message kicked in. “The party
you’ve dialed in the 805 area code is currently unavailable . . .”

My first thought was that this might be Christian Satterfield’s parole officer, or perhaps the parolee
himself. I was just about to answer when I heard Cheney’s voice. I stayed my hand, which hovered in
midair as he tossed off a hasty greeting and then read aloud the phone number and the address on
Dave Levine Street that Christian Satterfield had used at the time of his arrest. I picked up a pen and
made a note of the information as Cheney neared the end of his recital. After he signed off, I played
the message again, making certain I’d heard the numbers correctly.

I opened my bottom desk drawer and hauled out the phone book again. I flipped over to the S’s and
ran a finger down the column. There were no Satterfields living on Dave Levine, but I found a match
for the phone number under the name Victor Satterfield on Trace Avenue, which was not a street I
knew. I removed the Santa Teresa street map from my shoulder bag and opened it to the full. I spread
it across my desk and checked the street index. I found Trace at the axis of G on the horizontal and 31
on the vertical. The street was a block and a half long and butted right up against Highway 101. If I
was correct in my recollection of the house numbers on Dave Levine, this address was no more than
five blocks away from the one Satterfield had claimed ten years earlier.

I picked up the phone and dialed. I probably should have cooked up a ruse in advance, but
sometimes action without planning makes just as much sense. And sometimes not. The phone rang
three times, and then someone picked up. “Hello?” Female, gravelly voiced, and blunt.

I pictured a habitual smoker over the age of fifty. She’d uttered only one word and somehow
managed to sound rude. “May I speak to Chris?”

“Who?”
“Christian?”
There was dead silence for a beat. “Honey, you’re not going to have any luck with that one,” she
said.
And then she hung up.
I replaced the handset in the cradle, wondering what she meant. I wasn’t going to have any luck
with that one, meaning asking for someone named Chris or Christian? Or I wasn’t going to have any
luck with the man himself? Were women calling the house all day long and bombing out right and
left? All I’d wanted to know was whether the number would net me one parolee. Calling again
probably wasn’t going to prove any more informative. I needed to settle the issue, and Hallie wasn’t
paying me enough to extend the task any longer than was absolutely necessary.
I picked up the folder in which I’d tucked the copy of the newspaper clipping that included
Satterfield’s photograph. I slid the file into the outer pocket of my shoulder bag, locked the office, and
trotted out to my car. I’d recently sold my 1970 Mustang, a Grabber Blue Boss 429 that was much too
conspicuous for the work I do. I’m supposed to blend in to the background, which was much easier
with my current boring vehicle, a Honda so nondescript that I sometimes failed to spot it in a public

parking lot. The only element common to the two cars is the overnight bag I stash in the trunk in case
of an emergency. My definition of an emergency is being without a toothbrush, toothpaste, and fresh
underpants. I slid under the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. I missed the resounding
throatiness of the Mustang’s oversize engine as it rumbled to life. It always sounded like a Chris-
Craft powerboat to me.

I drove to the end of the block and turned right on Santa Teresa Street, continuing six blocks north
before I cut over to Dave Levine. I took a left and followed the one-way street south toward the
ocean. I spotted Trace Avenue, passed it, and then found a parking place a block away. I locked the
car and walked back.

The house at 401 Trace turned out to be a small one-story frame structure on the corner of Trace
and Dave Levine. A wide apron of dead grass formed an L on two sides of the property, and a plain
wrought-iron fence marked the perimeter. The house itself sat on a slab of poured concrete made
level by a low wall of cinder block with a planting bed along the upper edge. The shrubs, like the
lawn, were so brown, they looked singed.

The windows were sliding aluminum-framed panels, tightly closed and rendered blank by lined
drapes. Up close, I knew the aluminum would be pitted. The porch was small. To the right of the front
door, there was an upholstered chair covered in floral cotton, blue and green blossoms on a ground of
red. To the left of the door there was a houseplant, probably fake. I crossed the street at an angle,
waiting until I was out of range to pause and look back. No sign of the inhabitants. The rear of the
house suggested more space than I’d imagined. I was guessing three small bedrooms, one bathroom,
living room, kitchen, and utility porch.

The neighborhood seemed quiet, made up almost entirely of single-family homes that had probably
been built in the 1940s. A few of the cars parked at the curb were new; maybe two out of fifteen. The
rest were three to five years old and in good shape. Most were American-made. This was not an area
where banged-up vehicles were parked three-deep in the driveways. The houses were well-
maintained and most of the lawns were tidy, given that dead grass is so much easier to control.

I returned to my car and drove around the block, this time parking on a side street to the north and
perpendicular to Trace. For a while, I sat there and thought about life. I needed a vantage point from
which I could keep an eye on the house. With luck, Christian Satterfield would arrive or depart, thus
allowing me to confirm his whereabouts. Here’s the problem with stationary surveillance, otherwise
known as a stakeout: Most people arrive at a destination, park the car, and get out. Almost no one
with a lawful purpose sits in a vehicle staring through the windshield at a building across the street.
Sit in a car for any length of time and you look suspicious, which means somebody’s going to call the
cops and then your cover will be blown. The trick is to think of a legitimate reason to be loitering—a
proposition more slippery than one would imagine. In the past, I’d feigned car trouble, which is only
effective as long as some Good Samaritan doesn’t approach and offer assistance. I’d also faked a
traffic survey, which I managed to extend for two days until I spotted my prey. Here, there was no
point in pretending to count cars, because mine was the only moving vehicle I’d been aware of since I
arrived.

I locked the car and proceeded on foot. As I approached the corner, I spotted two small businesses:
a convenience store on one side and a bar and grill called Lou’s on the corner opposite. The mailman,
with his rolling cart, was just ahead of me on the far side of the street. Despite the chilly weather, he
wore blue shorts, a matching blue shirt with a USPS patch on one sleeve, and what looked like a pith
helmet. The mailboxes were stationed along the sidewalk, so instead of having to approach each
house on foot, all he had to do was open the box and insert the relevant bundle of bills, magazines,

and junk mail for any given address.
I kept pace with him and watched when he turned the corner, moving toward the cul-de-sac where

the highway cut through. I thought I might catch up with him and quiz him about the occupants of 401,
but I worried the inquiry would get back to them. My mailperson is a friendly gal with whom I chat
from time to time. If someone came skulking around with questions about me, she’d not only
stonewall the stranger, she’d tattle the first chance she had. If I wanted to know the names of the
persons receiving mail at 401 Trace, all I had to do was look. I glanced at the house. No one peered
out from behind the drapes and no one emerged to collect the mail, so I took the liberty of lowering
the flap. I removed the mail and sorted through the collection as though I had every right to do so.

Geraldine Satterfield was the addressee on a number of bills, Southern California Edison, AT&T,
and Nordstrom among them. None of the envelopes was rimmed in red, so I assumed her accounts
were current. A Pauline Fawbush had received her copy of People magazine, but that was the extent
of the mail in her name. Impossible to know if it had been Geraldine or Pauline who’d answered the
phone. The catalogs were for Occupant or Current Resident. Nothing for Christian, but he’d only been
a free man for a short while, assuming he was there at all. I didn’t picture him on anybody’s mailing
list. I closed the box and moved on.

On the far side of the street, I spotted two houses with For Rent signs in the yards. One sign in
small print said DO NOT DISTURB TENANTS, which suggested someone was still in residence. The house
two doors to the right looked more promising. There were cardboard boxes piled up on the curb
along with four bulging black plastic bags. There were also assorted discards: a chair with a spring
poking up through the seat and a swing-arm lamp with a missing locking nut and springs. This fairly
cried out for further investigation. I lifted my gaze and did a casual survey. No dogs barked. I didn’t
pick up any cooking smells or the whine of a leaf blower being operated nearby.

I traversed the street at an angle and walked up the short driveway, circling the house to the scruffy
yard in the rear. I climbed two steps to the back porch and peered in through the glass-paned window
in the kitchen door. The place was a mess. These people were never going to get their cleaning
deposit back. The four-burner stove was spattered with grease. The counters were littered with open
containers that ants were raiding in a feverish display of industry. In the center of the room, there was
a garbage can filled to the brim. Even through the glass, the rotting foodstuffs smelled like they’d been
sitting for a week.

I tried the knob and the kitchen door swung open with the sort of creak reserved for horror movies.
Technically speaking, this wasn’t breaking and entering since I hadn’t broken anything. I made a few
“yoo-hoo” noises just to satisfy myself that I was the only one on the premises. I’d seen this same
floor plan in countless California cottages. Kitchen, living room, dining area, and two bedrooms with
a bathroom between. I moved down the hall to the living room and looked out the front window
toward the house at 401, which was hard to my right. I couldn’t see much. I unlocked the dead bolt on
the front door and stuck my head out. The front porch was small, surrounded on three sides by a half
wall, bisected by a short flight of steps. White latticework trellises extended from the top of the low
porch wall to the roofline. The vines that had originally climbed up the trellises were long since
dead, and the brown leaves created a cozy retreat. The angle of the view was sharp, but it did
encompass Geraldine Satterfield’s front door and part of the driveway to the left.

I closed the front door, which I left unlocked as I continued my walk-about. In the bathroom, I tried
the taps and was delighted to find running water. I opened the toilet lid and discovered the little
present left by the former tenant. I pushed the lever and was rewarded with a vigorous flushing.
Despite the absence of toilet paper, a working commode is always an asset to a hard-boiled private

eye.
I left by way of the back door and went out to the street. I strolled to the corner, where I turned

right and returned to my car. I opened the trunk and hauled out a folding camp stool suitable for golf
or tennis matches if I were the sort who attended sporting events. I opened the driver’s-side door,
leaned across the seat, and flipped open the glove compartment. I removed my binoculars, locked the
car, and then checked the parking signs to make sure the Honda wouldn’t be towed away while I was
on the job.

Before I returned to the empty house, I went into the convenience store and picked up a turkey
sandwich sealed in cellophane. The sell-by date wasn’t coming up for another two days, so I figured I
was safe. I opened the glass-fronted refrigerated case and chose a bottle of lemon-flavored iced tea. I
added a two-pack of one-ply toilet paper and paid for the items at the cash register in front.

I entered the empty house a second time by way of the back door, tested the toilet, which was still
in good working order, then went out onto the front porch and assembled my temporary campsite. I
opened the folding canvas stool and positioned it close to the trellis, set my bag of supper items to
one side, and then trained my binoculars on the house at 401. I cursed myself when I realized I’d
neglected to bring anything to read, which was probably just as well. This left me with no choice but
to sit and stare through the X’s of the trellis until I spotted my subject or gave up my quest for the day.
As time passed, to amuse myself, I divided the total hours on the job into the two hundred dollars I’d
been paid. In calculating my hourly rate, I couldn’t help but notice a steep decline as time went on.

This is what I saw: a woman I took to be Pauline Fawbush fetched the mail from the box and then
settled on the porch in the floral upholstered chair and read her People magazine. Pauline appeared to
be in her late seventies, and I was guessing she was Geraldine’s mother and Christian’s grandmother.
She was occupied for forty-five minutes, after which she returned to the house and came out moments
later with her manicure kit. Oh, boy. I watched her paint her fingernails with a shade of polish called
Love’s Flame, the label clearly visible through my binoculars.

At 5:00, a glossy black limousine appeared from my right, turned the corner onto Trace, and pulled
into the Satterfield driveway. The driver was a middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit with a white
dress shirt and a black bow tie. The rim on the license plate read PRESTIGE TRANSPORTATION SERVICES
INC. From that, I surmised she was a driver for a limousine company, a guess I later verified through
other sources.

She went into the house. I spotted her moments later in the kitchen, which was on the Dave Levine
side of the street at the rear. Pauline joined her, and the two occupied themselves with preparing the
evening meal. As they chopped at waist level, I couldn’t identify any of the foodstuffs. I was about to
pass out from boredom. Not that carrots would have been exciting. I ate my sandwich, which was
better than I had any reason to expect. My neck hurt, I was cold, my butt was sore, and I was cranky.
My right leg had fallen asleep. My hourly rate continued to drop precipitously. Ninety-two cents an
hour isn’t even close to minimum wage. I saw the porch light go on.

It was fully dark when I saw a fellow approach from the right on foot. He went into the house. In
the murky light, I’d only caught a flash of him, but I recognized Christian Satterfield from his
photograph. I waited another thirty minutes before I packed up my gear and decamped.

I drove to the office and let myself in. I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and placed it on my
desk. I removed the top of the hinged case and set it to one side. Then I pulled out a few sheets of
letterhead stationery along with a few pieces of blank paper that I used to compose a rough draft of
my report, laying out the information in that faux-neutral language that infuses a professional summary
of a job when it’s done. The report was short, but covered the information my client had requested:

Christian’s current address, a home phone, and visual confirmation that he was in Santa Teresa and
had entered the premises on at least this one occasion. My guess was that he’d gone back to living
with his mom, but I might have been wrong about that.

I reread the report, editing a line here and there. Then I rolled a sheet of stationery into the
typewriter and made a proper job of it. I ran off two copies of the report on my new secondhand copy
machine, signed the original, and folded it in thirds. The two copies I placed in the file folder I’d
created for that purpose. I cranked a number 10 envelope into the machine and typed Hallie
Bettancourt’s name and the post office box she’d provided. I affixed a stamp, snapped the lid onto the
Smith Corona, and tucked it under the desk. Then I grabbed my shoulder bag and the report, turned out
the lights, and locked up.

On my way home, I stopped by the post office, where I pulled up at the curb and tossed the
envelope into the collection box.

6

The rest of the week went by, the days filled with the sort of do-nothing business not worth
mentioning. I should have savored the mindless passage of time, but how was I to know? Monday,
March 13, I went into the office as usual and diddled around until noon, taking care of clerical
matters. I was halfway out the door on my way to lunch when the telephone rang. I hesitated, tempted
to let the machine record the caller so I could be on my way. Instead, I reversed direction and
dutifully picked up.

“Millhone Investigations.”
Ruthie laughed. “I love that. ‘Millhone Investigations.’ So businesslike. This is Ruthie. I was afraid
you’d left for lunch.”
“I was just on my way out. How was your trip north?”
“Good. Actually, it was great. I enjoyed myself,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d had a chance
to check the contents of that box.”
Box?
I said, “Shit! I forgot. I’m sorry. Honestly, I blanked on it.”
“Well, I hate to nag, but I called the IRS agent this morning and he was Johnny-on-the-spot. My
appointment’s tomorrow afternoon at one.”
“That was quick,” I said. “Which IRS office, local or Los Angeles?”
“He’s coming to the house. I thought I’d have to make the trip downtown, but he says it’s just as
easy for him to stop by.”
“Accommodating of him.”
Somewhat sheepishly, she said, “I confess I was sucking up to him. I’m playing the ‘poor widder
woman’ with a lot of ‘woe is me’ thrown in. I can’t believe he fell for it.”
“You gotta work with what you have.”
“I’ll say. Tell you the truth, he frightened me with all his talk of interest and penalties.”
“How much does Pete owe?”
“That’s what the agent is trying to determine. He says failing to pay taxes is one thing. Failing to
file is a federal offense. It’s not like he wants to get me in hot water; just the opposite. If I come up
with any documentation at all, he thinks he can get the issue resolved in my favor.”
“What issue? Is he talking about personal or professional?”
“Professional, but not the 1988 returns. He dropped that idea. I told him Pete had one client this
entire past year, so he shifted gears. Now he’s focused on Byrd-Shine.”
“That’s ridiculous. Pete wasn’t a partner in the agency. He wasn’t even a full-time employee. It
was all contract work. Who bothers to hang on to old 1099s?”
“I’m just repeating what he said. I don’t want to argue with the man when I’m trying to pass myself
off as a conscientious citizen. Pete swore he had access to all the old records, but they weren’t close
at hand.”
“When did he talk to Pete?”
“A year ago, I guess. He says Pete assured him he had the paperwork in storage, but it was a hassle
to get to and that’s why he was dragging his feet.”

“It does sound like him.”
“Doesn’t it? He never did anything he could put off.”
I said, “Here’s what seems weird: as broke as he was, why would he shell out money for a storage
unit?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. You think he lied?”
“Not my point. I’m saying if he’d rented a self-storage unit, you’d have heard about it by now
unless he paid a year in advance. Otherwise, the renewal would have come up, don’t you think?”
“True. I guess he might have stuck the paperwork in the attic. I mean, we don’t really have an attic,
but we have the equivalent.”
“Which is what?”
“Junk room might be the kindest way to describe it. Most of it’s mine from when my mother died
and we had to clean out her house. Always possible Pete shoved a box or two in there. It would be
easy to overlook.”
“Sounds like it’s worth a try.”
“I’ve been meaning to do it anyway. I could use the space. Enough about my mess. I better let you
get to lunch.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do a quick search and get back to you within the hour. Will you be
there?”
“I’ve got errands to run, but it shouldn’t take me long. I’m not crazy about the idea of your using
work time for this. Why don’t you drop the box at my place and I can tackle the job? Play my cards
right and I can probably talk the IRS guy into lending a hand. I could swear he was moments away
from volunteering.”
“Well, aren’t you the charmer? He’s really falling all over himself. So what’s this guy’s name? If I
get audited, I’ll be sure to ask for him.”
“George Dayton, like the city in Ohio. You sure you won’t change your mind about bringing the box
to me?”
“No, no. I’ll take care of it. I should have done it a week ago.”
“Well, I thank you. Let me know what you find.”

•••

I decided I might as well grab lunch at home, thus combining feed-time with the task I’d forgotten. As
I rounded the corner of the studio, I spotted Henry standing to one side of the yard in a white T-shirt,
shorts, and flip-flops. He has the long, lean lines of a distance runner, though I’ve never seen him
engaged in formal exercise. He’s a man in constant motion, who keeps his intellect sharp by way of
crossword puzzles and other tests of memory and imagination. The genetic code for all of the Pitts
kids has tapped them for long lives. His brothers William and Lewis share Henry’s lean build.
Charlie and Nell, now ninety-seven and ninety-nine years old, respectively, are constructed along
sturdier lines, but enjoy the same extended longevity. Charlie’s hearing has dimmed, but the lot of
them are smart, energetic, and mentally acute.

I crossed to Henry’s side and looked down, noting he’d dug a twelve-inch-deep hole in the lawn,
into which he’d inserted a measuring stick. The cat sat nearby, staring attentively into the hole, hoping
something small and furry would appear.

Henry picked up his watering can, filled the hole with water, and took a quick look at his watch.
“What’s this about?” I asked.

“I’m measuring soil perk. This dirt has heavy clay content, and I need to find out how fast the water
drains.”

I studied the water in the hole. “Not very.”
“I’m afraid not.” He glanced at me with a wry smile. “I made a discovery today. You know how
Ed’s been getting out?”
“No clue.”
“Dryer vent. The tubing came loose and I spotted the hole when I was crawling through the bushes
checking water lines.”
“You close it up?”
“I did. He’ll probably find another way out, but for now he’s housebound.”
Apparently, Henry hadn’t noticed the cat at his feet, and I made no mention of him.
On a side table next to one of his Adirondack chairs, I spotted an oversize paper edition of
Grissom’s Gray Water Guide.
“I see you got your book.”
“Came in Friday’s mail. I’ve been reading up on the difference between separate flow and
collection plumbing.”
“What’s that about?”
“Reuse efficiency, among other things. I’ve set up separate flows, but now I’m not sure that’s the
best choice. Grissom’s talking about maintenance and troubleshooting, which hadn’t occurred to me.
This fellow’s not a fan of the slapdash.”
“Sounds like you need a plumber.”
“Might,” he said. “My house and yard are small, so I was hoping to minimize the cost, but there’s
no point in building a system that doesn’t do the job.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to ask an expert.”
“I’ll give someone a call,” he said. He continued to stare at the water in the hole, which was, so
far, stationary. He shook his head, disheartened.
“Yoo-hoo, Henry. Excuse me . . .”
Both of us turned to see a small round face rising like a moon above the wood-plank fence that
separated Henry’s driveway from the house next door. Henry lifted a hand in greeting.
“Edna. Good to see you. This is Kinsey.”
“How do,” she said. “I heard voices and wondered if there was a problem.”
Her face was framed by a thin braid she wore wound around her head. Her teeth, even at a
distance, looked like a replacement set. She had thin shoulders and thin arms that she rested on the
fence support. Her dress was black with tiny white dots and a wide white collar edged with lace.
Under her collar, a red grosgrain ribbon was tied in a perky bow. I was surprised she was tall enough
to peer over the fence.
“She’s standing on a box,” Henry said, half under his breath. And to her, “I’m explaining my water
conservation plans.”
“I hope you’ll share the information,” she said. “Our water bill’s been going up. I wish someone
had told us how expensive it is living here. It’s been a shock.”
“Where were you before?” I asked.
“Perdido. My husband worked for the city. He took early retirement because of an injury. He
receives his social security and disability checks, of course, but his pension doesn’t go as far as we
thought, and now we’re feeling the pinch. Are you Henry’s daughter?”
“His tenant. When he built his new garage, he converted the old one into a rental unit.”

She blinked. “Well, that’s a wonderful idea. Our garage is sitting empty. Joseph isn’t allowed to
drive, and I’m much too nervous on the road these days. With gas prices so high, it made sense to sell
our car. A tenant would be a nice way to add to our income.”

“I doubt you can get the necessary permits,” Henry said. “Zoning laws have changed, especially
with drought conditions getting worse. The city’s tough on new construction.”

“I don’t know what we’re to do,” she said. “If an item’s not on sale, I have to take it off the list. I
never thought I’d see the day when I’d be clipping coupons.”

“I do that as well,” he said. “I make a game of it, seeing how much I can save from week to week.”
“Sometimes I serve chili with chopped onions over corn bread as our main meal of the day. Fine as
far as it goes, but eighty-nine cents for a can of chili beans is too much,” she said. “So-called ‘land of
plenty,’ and here you have little kids and old folks going hungry. It’s not right.”
“If you need to go to the market, I’ll be happy to give you a lift the next time I go,” Henry said,
riding right over her complaints.
Her small face creased with a tremulous smile. “That would be wonderful. I have one of those
wire carts, but it’s too far with my bad ankle.”
“You put a list together. I’ll be making a trip in the next couple of days.”
She turned to look at the house as though in response to a sound. “Joseph’s calling,” she said. “I
best go see what he needs. Nice meeting you, Miss.”
“You too,” I said.
She disappeared, and moments later we could see her struggle as she climbed her back porch
stairs, clinging to the rail.
“Bit of a sad sack,” I remarked.
Belatedly, he frowned. “Aren’t you home early?”
“I promised Ruthie I’d look for Pete’s financial information. She’s got an IRS audit tomorrow and
any relevant documents would be a blessing. I doubt I’ll find ’em, but I said I’d try. There are some
old Byrd-Shine files I need to sort through anyway.”
“You need help?”
“Nah. It’s one box. I should have done it days ago, but I forgot.”
He glanced back at the hole. “Water’s still sitting there.”
“Bummer,” I said. “Anyway, I told Ruthie I’d get back to her within the hour. Will I see you later at
Rosie’s?”
“I’m attending an adult education water conservation workshop at seven, but I’ll stop by
afterward.”
I headed for my front door. I glanced back, noting that Ed the cat had taken himself inside and now
sat on Henry’s high bathroom windowsill, his mouth moving mutely in what I took to be a plaintive
cry to be let out.
“You just stay where you are. I’m not letting you out,” Henry said.

7

I sat down at my desk and dragged the banker’s box out of the knee-hole space. The lid was askew
because the files were jutting up above the rim. It looked like someone had jammed the lid into place,
trying to force a fit. Half the file tabs were bent and mangled in consequence. I lifted the box, using
the handhold on either end, and set it on my desk.

This was the same cardboard carton in which I’d found Pete’s tape deck wedged some months
before. I’d since moved the recorder to my bottom drawer. The old Sony was oversize and had the
look of an antique compared to those currently in use. On the cassette he’d left in the machine, I’d
found the illegally recorded phone conversation he’d used in the blackmail scheme that eventually got
him killed. It really was a wonder he’d lived as long as he did.

I emptied the box, hauling out file after file: bulging accordion-style folders, correspondence, case
notes, and written reports. Byrd-Shine had a document-retention policy of five years, so most were
long out of date. The major portion would be duplicates of reports sent to the various attorneys for
whom Ben and Morley had worked. My plan was to assess the contents, set aside anything sensitive,
and deliver the remainder to a shredding company. I wasn’t sure what would qualify as “sensitive,”
but occasionally lawsuits drag on for years, and it was always possible a case might still be active,
though no longer under the purview of the now-defunct agency.

Pete must have cherry-picked these client files, perhaps hoping to generate business after the
agency was dissolved. Given his questionable code of conduct, he would have felt no compunction
about reaping the benefits of Ben and Morley’s split. The fifteen files I counted seemed randomly
assembled. Pete probably had a game plan, but so far I hadn’t discerned the underlying strategy.

Among the cases, the only one I remembered was a lawsuit in which an attorney named Arnold
Ruffner had hired Byrd-Shine to do a background check on a woman named Taryn Sizemore, who
was suing his client for intentional infliction of emotional distress. The defendant, Ned Lowe, was
accused of stalking, harassment, and threats. His attorney paid Byrd-Shine a big whack of money to
find evidence that would undermine the plaintiff’s credibility. Morley Shine had handled the matter.

At the time, I was still in training, so I wasn’t involved. Eventually, the suit was dropped, so
Morley must have delivered the goods.

Remembering Ruthie’s caution about Pete’s penchant for hiding cash, I turned each file upside
down and riffled the pages. I wasn’t even halfway through the process when a piece of folded graph
paper fell out. I opened it and found myself looking at handwritten columns of numbers, eight across
and twelve down, the numbers grouped in subsets of four.

I checked the other side of the paper, which was blank. There were no torn edges, so it didn’t
appear the page had been removed from a financial ledger. No dollar signs, no commas, and no
decimal points. Many numbers were repeated. Eight of the twelve lines ended in sets of zeroes, which
might have been place holders used to round out the grid. I couldn’t imagine what it was, but I
assumed the data was significant, or why would he have hidden it? Knowing how devious he was, I
didn’t want to underestimate his thinking process—but I also didn’t want to overestimate his smarts. I
put the paper in the outer compartment of my shoulder bag and went back to the job at hand.

I thought the case names I came across would trigger memories, but it was the sight of Ben Byrd’s
precise penmanship that called up images of the past. He’d used a fountain pen and a particular brand
of ink, so his field notes were easily distinguished from the scribbles Morley had made with assorted
ballpoint pens. All the final reports were neatly typed. The originals had gone to the clients’ attorneys
and the carbons were filed in descending date order, the most recent on top. Ben had insisted on
storing the rough draft notes with the finished versions, making sure both were retained. I could
remember a couple of occasions when critical information hadn’t made it into the typed report, and it
was Ben’s policy that had saved the agency embarrassment.

He and Morley had been a study in contrasts. Ben was a statesman and a gentleman, tall, elegant,
and dignified, while Morley was the rumpled, overweight jack-of-all-trades who generally flew by
the seat of his pants. Morley relied on intuitive leaps, where Ben operated by the methodical
accretion of detail. Morley was quick off the mark and insights came to him intact. At the outset, he
couldn’t always justify his position, but nine times out of ten he was right. Ben might come to the
same conclusion, but his was a carefully rendered composition, where Morley’s was a quick sketch.

In one expandable file folder, I found a stack of annotated index cards, wrapped with a rubber band

that broke the minute I lifted the packet from the depths; Ben Byrd’s bold blue cursive again. He was
the one who’d taught me the art of the interview without the use of a notebook or tape recorder.
Didn’t matter to him if he was dealing with a client or a culprit, an adversary or a confidential
informant. His policy was to listen with his whole being, mind open, judgment held in reserve. He
absorbed tone and body language, trusting his memory as the conversation went on. After each
exchange, he converted facts and impressions into written form as soon as possible, using index cards
to record the bits and pieces regardless of how unimportant they might have seemed in the moment.
He was also an advocate of shuffling and reshuffling his makeshift deck of cards, convinced that even
a random rearrangement would sometimes suggest a startling new view. Until that moment, I wasn’t
even aware how thoroughly I’d absorbed the lesson. I’d forgotten his habit of dating his index cards
and decided it might be a smart idea to adopt the practice myself. I could see the virtue of keeping
track of the order in which information was acquired along with the content itself.

After that brief detour, I worked quickly, doing a spot check here and there, still hopeful I might
find pertinent financial statements. That Pete might slip personal business papers in among agency
documents made no particular sense, but I didn’t want to rule out the possibility. The folders
themselves were shopworn, tabs ragged and bent, a consequence of the box’s being too shallow for
the contents. Since banker’s boxes are designed to accommodate standard-size files, I was perplexed
by the poor fit.

I studied the bottom of the empty box, noting that the cardboard “floor” was uneven along the edge.
I’d constructed many identical cartons, which arrived in flat packages for assembling in place. There
were always tricky diagrams labeled Flap A and Flap B with arrows pointing this way and that. I
thought of it as an IQ test for office employees whose job was to pack up documents for long-term
storage. The puzzler was that the final flap should have fit seamlessly, and here it did not. I retrieved
a letter opener from my pencil drawer and wedged it into the gap, using it as leverage. I cringed at the
harsh shriek of cardboard on cardboard, but did succeed in popping out the makeshift rectangle that
had been cut to fit.

Under it was a ten-by-fifteen padded mailing pouch, addressed to a Father Xavier, St. Elizabeth’s
Parish in Burning Oaks, California, a small town a hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of Santa
Teresa. The return address was 461 Glenrock Road, also in Burning Oaks. The package was
postmarked March 27, 1961, roughly twenty-eight years before. I removed the mailer and studied it,
front and back. Originally, the padded envelope had been taped and stapled shut, but someone had
already opened it, so I felt at liberty to take a peek myself.

Inside, there were a number of items that I removed one by one. The first was a red-bead rosary;
the second a small Bible with a red leatherette cover embossed with LENORE REDFERN, CONFIRMED TO
CHRIST, APRIL 13, 1952. The name was written again on the frontispiece in a girlish cursive. Knowing
little about the Catholic Church, I imagined young girls were baptized or confirmed at age twelve or
so. I wasn’t sure if baptism and confirmation were synonymous or different religious rituals, but I
thought the taking of a First Communion figured in there somewhere.

I reached into the mailer again and removed a crude handmade card on red construction paper. The
simple lettering said Happy Mother’s Day! In the center, there was a child’s diminutive handprint
outlined in white tempura paint with the name April printed under it, doubtless under the guiding hand
of an adult. At the bottom of the mailer was an unsealed envelope that contained a child’s birthday
card. On the front was a teddy bear holding a balloon with a button affixed. The button read: NOW I
AM 4! Inside, the handwritten message read: I love you with all my heart! XOXOXOX Mommie

Four one-dollar bills had been enclosed; one for every year of the child’s life.

I returned to the Bible, where I found a black-and-white snapshot tucked into the New Testament.
The young girl pictured wore a white dress, a headband with a short white veil attached, white socks
edged with lace, and black patent leather Mary Janes. She was posed on the front steps of a church.
Dark hair, dark eyes, and a smile that revealed endearingly crooked teeth. In the current context, I
thought I was safe assuming this was Lenore Redfern.

Tucked in the back cover of the Bible, almost as an afterthought, I found a wedding announcement,
dated March 13, 1988, clipped from the Santa Teresa Dispatch.

LOWE-STAEHLINGS
April Elizabeth Lowe and Dr. William Brian Staehlings were united in marriage on
February 20, 1988, at the United Methodist Church in Santa Teresa, California. April,
the daughter of Ned and Celeste Lowe of Cottonwood, is a 1981 graduate of Pomona
College and more recently the Santa Teresa Business College. She’s currently
employed as a legal secretary for the law firm of Eaton and McCarty. Dr. Staehlings is
the son of Dr. Robert Staehlings and the late Julianna Staehlings of Boulder, Colorado.
A graduate of the University of California, Santa Teresa, and Loma Linda University
School of Dentistry, Dr. Staehlings opened a private practice, specializing in
orthodontics, with an office on State Street in Santa Teresa. The newlyweds
honeymooned in Hawaii and are now “at home” in Colgate.

April, not yet four years old when the items were mailed to Father Xavier, had done all right in the
world. She’d managed to educate herself, find gainful employment, and fall in love. I read the
wedding announcement again and stopped three sentences into it at the mention of the bride’s father.
Ned Lowe was the defendant in the lawsuit I’d just come across. I was assuming Ned Lowe was
April’s father and Lenore Redfern was her mother. Ned was now married to a woman named Celeste,
so if Ned and Lenore were April’s parents, they’d either divorced or Lenore had died and he’d
moved on. Pete must have spied the announcement in the paper and added it to the old file, creating an
addendum to the now-dead legal dispute.

The remaining item was a four-by-six-inch red leather frame that contained a studio portrait of a
mother posed with a little girl sitting on her lap. The mother-daughter relationship was reinforced by
the fact that the two wore matching red plaid tops. The little girl’s wispy blond curls were shoulder-
length and her face was lighted by a smile that showed small perfect teeth. She held an Easter basket
in her lap that contained a big blue bunny, dyed Easter eggs (one pink, one blue, one green), and
assorted foil-wrapped chocolates nested in bright green paper grass. Lenore and April? I put the two
photographs side by side. Lenore at her confirmation and Lenore with her child.

The grown-up Lenore bore only a passing resemblance to her younger self. Her hair was now
blond and worn in a style vaguely suggestive of vintage movie star glamor. She must have been in her
late teens or early twenties; her pale complexion was so smooth and clear, it might have been carved
from alabaster. Her expression was withdrawn, anger turned inward, as though motherhood had
somehow robbed her of animation. The contrast between mother and daughter was troubling. The
camera had caught the child close to bouncing, happy and secure and utterly unaware of her mother’s
demeanor.

I returned the items to the pouch and then returned the pouch to the bottom of the box and wedged
the cardboard panel in on top. I assumed Pete had created the hidey-hole, though I couldn’t be sure. I
shoved the batch of files into the box in no particular order. I wondered how these keepsakes had

ended up in his hands so many years after the fact, especially when they’d been mailed to a Catholic
priest. Pete, of course, was a mercenary at heart and may have intended to deliver the memorabilia to
the newly wed April and accept a reward if she should press one on him in gratitude. The notion was
crass, but in perfect keeping with his character.

I placed the banker’s box near the front door. In the morning, I’d take it to the office and lock the
mailing pouch in my floor safe. I couldn’t imagine who’d want it, but if Pete thought it worth
concealing, then I’d do the same. At that point, for lack of a better plan, I put a call through to Ruthie.
The number rang repeatedly, and then her answering machine picked up. I listened to the outgoing
message, and after the beep, I said, “Hey, babe. No tax returns and no financial records. Sorry ’bout
that. I’ll be trotting up to Rosie’s in a bit, so if you feel like joining me, I’ll buy you a drink and we
can catch up.”

8

As I’d forgotten to eat lunch, I prepared a nutritious dinner at home: a peanut butter and pickle
sandwich on a multigrain bread so textured, I could count the seeds, nuts, hulls, and bits of straw
baked into the loaf. I rounded out the fiber content with a handful of Fritos while I sipped a Diet
Pepsi. At eight, I grabbed the banker’s box and rested it on my hip while I locked the studio door
behind me. As I passed my car, I unlocked the trunk and hefted the box into the space, locking the car
again before I continued the half block to Rosie’s.

William was at his usual post behind the bar, looking chipper in a three-piece navy suit with a pale
blue dress shirt; no tie. He’d donned a white apron and he was polishing wineglasses with the special
microfiber cloth he favored for eradicating water spots. When he saw me, he lifted a hand in greeting.
He placed a glass on the bar, filled it with white wine from one of Rosie’s oversize screw-top jugs,
and then winked to let me know the glass was meant for me. I crossed to the bar and settled on a
stool. “How are you doing, William?”

“Good. How are you?”
“Good. Thanks for this,” I said as I lifted the wineglass.
“My treat,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “Rosie suggested no tie tonight. If you think it’s
disrespectful to the other patrons, just say the word.”
“William, you’re the only one in here who ever wears a tie, so it might be a relief.”
“I appreciate that.”
He glanced to his left, where one of the day-drinkers had bellied up and was now signaling for his
usual. William poured two fingers of Old Crow and walked it down the bar.
I turned on my stool. Anna Dace was seated at a table at the rear in the company of two girlfriends,
one dark, one fair. Given the chill March evening, all three seemed too scantily dressed: tank tops,
miniskirts, and high heels. They had their heads together, and Anna seemed to be reading the palm of
the blonde, who appeared to be the younger of the two girls. I watched her trace a line along the
blonde’s thumb, speaking earnestly. Nothing so fascinating as being the focus of someone else’s rapt
attention.
Monday nights are quiet in most neighborhood watering holes, but the recent influx of police
personnel opened the door to chance encounters with officers I didn’t usually have occasion to run
into. A case in point being Jonah Robb, who sat in a booth by himself. I eased off my perch and
crossed the room. “You up for company?”
“Of course. Have a seat. It’s good to see you,” he said.
I slid into the booth across from him. He looked gloomy, but he was otherwise aging well; trim,
graying at the temples. He was what’s referred to as Black Irish, which is to say black-haired and
blue-eyed, an irresistible combination from my perspective.
I’d first met him when he was working missing persons and I was looking for one. For years, he’d
been married to a girl he’d met in seventh grade when they both were thirteen years old. He thought
marriage was for life, but Camilla’s commitment was on-again, off-again. She left him at intervals,
taking their two daughters with her, leaving Jonah with a year’s worth of frozen dinners she’d done up
herself. Jonah was hopelessly smitten with her, and the worse she treated him, the more hooked he

seemed to be. At one point she left with the two girls and came home pregnant by someone else.
Jonah took her back without a murmur of complaint. That little boy, Banner, was coming up on three
years old by my count.

Rosie appeared from the kitchen and made a brief stop at the bar before she headed in our
direction. Now that police department personnel were gracing the tavern, she’d begun to make eye
contact with new patrons, whereas before she generally looked to me or to someone familiar to
translate requests from strangers. She delivered a fresh glass of Michelob on tap for Jonah and a
basket of freshly popped corn for the table. I sprinkled Parmesan cheese over the surface and began to
munch.

“What’s happened to you? You look great,” I said.
“That’s a backhanded compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You look fabulous.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m really curious.”
I studied him. “Good haircut. You’ve lost weight. You look rested. Also, depressed, but that’s not
always unattractive in a guy.”
“Camilla’s back.”
“Good news.”
“She’s perimenopausal.”
I paused with a handful of popcorn halfway to my mouth. “Which is what?”
“Hot flashes and night sweats. Irregular menses. Loss of libido. Vaginal dryness. Urinary tract
infections.”
“Shit, Jonah. I’m trying to eat.”
“You asked.”
“I thought you’d talk about mood swings.”
“Yeah, well, those too. She says she’s home for good. No more fooling around.”
“Then why so glum?”
“I just got used to her being gone. The girls have been living with me for the past year, and we do
great. Camilla parked Banner with us when she took off. That was last September as a matter of fact.
Kid’s in preschool; bright, verbal, well-adjusted. She comes back and now he’s wetting the bed and
socking classmates in the mouth. I get calls from his school twice a week. Camilla wants us in
counseling and she thinks he should be on medication.”
I decided to steer off that subject. The pair had been in counseling off and on for years at Camilla’s
insistence and look where it had gotten them. “How old are the girls now?”
“Courtney’s seventeen. Ashley’s fifteen.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. That’s them over there.”
Astonished, I turned and stared. These were the two young women in consultation with Anna Dace.
All three of them were gorgeous, which I’m sure wasn’t true of me at that age. “I don’t believe it.”
“Trust me.”
“Hey, no offense intended, but I remember snaggled teeth, tangled hair, weak chins, and bodies
shaped like sausages. What happened?”
“All it took was countless beauty products and seven thousand dollars in braces.”
“Not Dr. Staehlings, by any chance?”
“Dr. White,” he said.
“Well, they look fantastic,” I said. “They must be happy to have Camilla home.”

“Ha! They hate it. She’s all over them. No phone calls after six P.M. No boys coming to the house.
Curfew’s at nine.”

“Doesn’t sound bad to me. So what’s your parental game plan?”
“I don’t need a game plan. I treat ’em like adults. All it takes is common sense. She doesn’t have a
clue what they’re about.”
I checked my watch and made a face. “Wow. Eight forty-five. With a nine o’clock curfew,
shouldn’t they be heading home?”
“This is my night out with them. She’s got Banner.”
I said, “Fun. Just like being divorced. Which of you pays child support?”
“Don’t make jokes.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant,” I said. “So what happens now?”
“I expect we’ll work it out. Change is tough.” The glum expression was back after the few brief
moments of animation.
“Jonah, how long has this been going on? Five years? Ten? As long as you buy into the program,
why would anything change?”
“You’re missing the point. My parents were divorced. I wouldn’t wish that on any kid.”
I didn’t think I’d missed the point at all, but there was no arguing with the man. I glanced at the
door just as Henry came in. “Henry’s here. I’ll catch you later. Good luck.”
“Good seeing you,” he said.
“You too.”
I eased out of the booth, relieved at the excuse. There’s nothing as aggravating as watching
someone else make a hash of life. Jonah had all the cards and he refused to play the hand. What was
Camilla’s hold on him? I hadn’t seen her for years, and then only at a distance. The woman had to be
a bombshell. Why had he put up with her? He was good-hearted, handsome, steady, responsible,
even-tempered. I’d dallied with the man myself on a couple of the occasions when Camilla had gone
off to “find herself.” It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that Jonah was never going to set himself
free. He knew better, but unhappiness was apparently preferable to taking risks.
I crossed to Henry’s table, taking my wineglass with me. “How was class?” I asked as I sat down.
He made a face; tongue out, eyes crossed. “I left early. It’s not that gray water’s boring, but the
subject does have its limits. How are things with you?”
“Nothing much to report.”
“There’s your friend Ruthie.”
I followed his gaze and spotted Ruthie coming in the door. I waved and she wound her way among
the empty tables. Ruthie was in her midsixties, tall and thin, with a lean face, a high forehead, and
gray-brown hair she wore in a braid down her back. Her jeans, sweatshirt, and running shoes seemed
incongruous on someone who seemed innately elegant.
When she reached us, I said, “Good. You got my message.”
She looked at me blankly. “What message?”
“The one I left an hour ago.”
“I just stopped by the house and there wasn’t anything on my machine. What was the message?”
“That I’d be here and if you were up for it, I’d buy you a drink. Isn’t that why you came?”
Henry stood and pulled out a chair for her.
She said thanks and sat down. “I came looking for you. I thought you were always here. When I
drove past your place and saw the lights were out, I made a beeline.”
“Why were you looking for me?”

“Being alone in that house has been giving me the creeps.” She turned in her chair, looking around
with interest. “Has this place changed hands? I remember beefy guys in baseball uniforms, spilling
beer and smoking cigarettes. The quiet is lovely.”

“The sports enthusiasts have moved on and now we have off-duty cops, which is better from my
perspective.”

Henry said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Vodka martini. Three olives. Thanks for asking.”
“What about you, Kinsey?”
“I’m fine for now.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said. Ruthie watched him cross to the bar.
“How old is he?”
“Eighty-nine.”
She studied him. “He’s cute. Really, he doesn’t seem old to me. Does he seem old to you?”
“Knock it off, Ruthie. I got dibs on him.”
We chatted about nothing in particular, and it wasn’t until Henry returned carrying her martini and a
Black Jack for himself that she brought up the subject of the box.
“So how’d it go?” she asked.
“The search was a bust, which was also part of the message you missed.”
“You didn’t find anything?”
“Nope.”
“Too bad. I was hoping you’d provide me with ammunition.”
Henry sat down and carefully placed Ruthie’s martini in front of her. “Ammunition for what?”
“Hang on,” she said. She held up an index finger, and I watched her lift the icy vodka to her lips
and take a sip. She made that sound that only a vodka martini seems to inspire among connoisseurs.
“That is so fine.”
I answered on her behalf while she savored the alcohol. “She has an appointment with the IRS
tomorrow, trying to sidestep an audit. She was hoping I could provide documentation, but no such
luck.”
“Oh well,” she said. “What are they going to do, put me in jail?”
I said, “Actually, I found something else. It probably won’t help, but it’s interesting.”
I leaned to my right and plucked the piece of graph paper from the outside pocket in my shoulder
bag. I unfolded the page and put it on the table in front of her, then pointed to the grid of numbers.
“You have any idea what this is?”
I watched her eyes take in the numbers on the page. “Looks like gibberish, but it’s Pete’s
handwriting. No doubt about that,” she said. “He loved graph paper and he was a big fan of those
technical pens. He kept dozens on hand.”
Henry leaned forward with interest. “Code.”
I turned to look at him. “You sure about that?”
“Of course. It’s alphanumeric and not terribly sophisticated. If I’m correct, he assigned a number to
each letter of the alphabet and then grouped the letters in fours to make it trickier to crack.”
“How’d you come up with that?” Ruthie asked.
“I play word games. Cryptograms, anagrams, word scrambles. You see ’em in the paper every day.
Haven’t you ever done one?”
“Not me. Pete loved that stuff. Most days I feel dumb enough as it is, which is why I don’t do
crossword puzzles.” She pointed at the page. “So translate. I’d love to hear this.”